


The Murder of Wayrest

by JFinne



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark, Gen, Horror, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Wayrest (Elder Scrolls)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 59,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26662183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JFinne/pseuds/JFinne
Summary: Awakened to a stormy night, a Clyfar Werinwr gets pulled into the scene of a gruesome murder, labeled: an animal attack.
Comments: 48
Kudos: 20





	1. Night of Sundas

**Author's Note:**

> It's a murder mystery!
> 
> Warnings:  
> Graphic Blood and Gore. Supernatural. Dark.
> 
> This is a side-project, so don't expect regular updates.  
> This is going to be a short story. But I don't know how many chapters it'll be.
> 
> Also!  
> Since it's a mystery: I'd love to hear your speculations between chapters!  
> All the key characters, events, and overall plot are already fully planned out and complete, so your speculations won't influence the outcome of the story.  
> I already know all the Who, What, and Why.
> 
> If you like this, don't be afraid to let me know.  
> And if you like this, why don't give my main-fic a read.
> 
> For those following my main story:  
> This is just a side-project I have been wanting to do for a while.  
> Don't worry, it won't take up from my main story, I'm only working on this one when I'm stuck on my main one.
> 
> In short: I wanted to write a murder mystery, so I did.

A distant pounding slowly broke my sleep: knuckles against wood, still, I couldn't tell the ceiling for the insides of my eyelids. I was still in that zone where one doesn't know if one's sleeping or awake—and the comfort of my bed was too warm and cozy for me to care.

Still, the pounding persisted—knock-knock-knock, turning into bang-bang-bang—as the knuckles-against-wood turned into a fist-against-slab. It no longer slowly broke my sleep, but rather, tore me out of it.

"By the Divines," I mumbled tiredly to myself, reluctantly forcing my way out from beneath the warmth of the covers—and here I thought my times of getting woken in the middle of the night were long since over. It's been years since I last had a night shift.

"I'm coming!" I yelled out loud as I reached for the folded garments on my chair. Still, the banging on my door aggravatingly persisted—what, in the name of Julianos, is the hurry?!

Pants on and loose white shirt I went for the door, lightening my handheld brass candle with a flint lighter en route. Heavy rain smattered against the dark windows—street lights were out—just how late a night was it?

And the banging only kept testing my patience.

"What in Oblivion is the matter?" I uttered out loud as I got the door open—a tone of 'still asleep' in my voice, rather than the harsh chew I had intended.

"My utmost apologies for waking you, Lieutenant…" the night-guard said promptly as my light fell on him in the doorway, "but I'm afraid you're needed at the—" the sentence stuck in his throat the way a sentence does when one is about to say something one shouldn't, and he looked away from me as he searched for better words.

He looked young, no one I knew, perhaps early twenties. One of the newer guards I suppose. He looked nervous and wide awake, the opposite of me, as he held his arm over his head for the rain. A hesitant look in his anxious eyes. No, I don't recognize him—not one of my men.

"Out with it," I said—the water was splashing on my feet and it was getting cold.

"There's…There's been another animal attack," he finally let out for my provocation.

An animal attack? Well, considering his tone and hesitation, I'd be a fool for believing it an actual ¨animal attack,¨ but that's not the word I reacted on: "Another?" I said: 'bout a month ago that Lieutenant Rubarb Castell got mauled by a bear, wasn't it? Found dead in the woods.

"Yes, sir! Over by the banking district."

"The banking?– then what are you waking _me_ for? That's not my district." The boy was truly beginning to test my patience, and I had a warm bed that was still calling me back. "Speak plainly!"

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not allowed as to–" he bowed his head nervously, "It's just…" and his voice wandered off as he dropped into though. He almost looked spooked before he lifted his head to continue. "The Captain only told me to get you and nothing more."

"Brenhines? The Captain?!…" suddenly my drowsiness and annoyance at disrupted sleep went away—if the Captain was there, this so-called ¨animal attack¨ wasn't one of the usual cover-ups, "…Next time, start off with that."

"I'm sorry, sir,"

"Enough with that, in with you, and wait by the doorway!" I waived my hand once, signaling for him to enter. Subordinate or not, I wasn't about to have him stand in the cold rain as he waited for me to dress.

"Gratitude's, sir," he said with relief as he shook off the rain and entered my hallway, "It… _was_ getting a bit cold."

"Give me a minute," I said as I lit one of the gray candles on the wall-mounted candle stand, to give him some light before I turned to return to my bed-chamber.

Dark lit room, but I didn't need much light to search my drawers. I always kept it organized the same way: pants left, shirts right.

Screw fashion, I grabbed the first ones at the top—light-brown pants and a grass-green shirt—not like it'll show beneath my coat. Socks on and a black vest and I was done. I turned the small framed mirror on the drawer so the light was at least decent, and gave myself a quick look: sharp eyebrows above tired brown eyes, brown hair, the definition of bed-head—as expected—and my mustache looked like the hairy end of a painting brush that should have been thrown out years ago. Though it always looked like that in the morning.

None the less, can't show up like that—my mustache's my pride—so I opened the right top drawer and took out that tiny jar of grease. Opened the lid, dipped two fingers, and hectically brushed them over my upper lip, flattening my pride to the sides before I twisted the edges upward and twirled them between my thumbs and index fingers into a half-circle on each side. Better flatten down the soul patch too, done and done. I reached for the candle.

I set it down on the hardwood desk in my hallway as I returned to the waiting guard. If he had given me a look for the ill-colored shirt, he hid it well—but more likely—he didn't dare to let me notice.

"I assume you brought horses?" I asked, grabbing the gray cotton trench-coat of its hanger—thick-leathered shoulders and visibly weatherworn.

"Yes, sir," he responded with a nod "They're ready outside."

"What are you waiting for then?" I said with a look.

"Of course, sir," he quickly answered for the hint and scurried off as I adorned the old coat.

I blew out the candles, pulled the thick coat-hood over my head, and took off after him through the open door. Into the cold, pouring, rain.

* * *

Brick buildings with oak-log frames and dark windows passed quickly as we raced the cut-stone streets. Sound of water splashing beneath iron hoofs underneath the low rumble of rolling thunder. I could hardly see shit for the pouring rain and mid-night dark, but that's the good thing about horses—they usually know the way on their own.

Heavy coat or not, we were soaked to the skin by the time we closed in on our destination. But at least we were here—I could see the distant torches from men guarding the building—and as the horses slowed down.

I know this building, Andane Marshog lives here—the lieutenant in charge of the bank district.

"Whoah-whoah-whoah," I said to curb the horse by the sidewalk. One of the men hurried toward me to grab the reins. "Sir," he greeted tiredly as he steadied the horse, and I heaved one leg over the horse and slid out of the slippery saddle, and took up a fast walk the second my feet hit the hard street. I wanted out of the rain that my hand couldn't keep out of my eyes.

"Where's Brenhines? Where's the Captain?!" I shouted over the weather at the men pressed against the building wall to keep out of the rain. They neither greeted nor looked up to in recognition. But one of them gestured toward the double door with his torch as I walked past.

Another young guard rushed out of the door and down the few steps as I approached, hand covering his mouth as he brushed past me and suddenly threw up onto the sidewalk. It took me by surprise as I stopped in my tracks and looked at him, bending over forward with his hands on his knees as he continued belching between his feet.

A feeling of disturbing discomfort swirled in my stomach. ¨Animal¨ attack, huh? Just what have I been dragged into?

With a brace-for-the-worst inhale, I turned away and climbed the stairs, pulling back the hood as I finally got under a roof. A hard jump-down-on-my-heels shook off most of the rain before I reached for the decorative copper handle and entered.

Smelled of tobacco smoke as I entered—the Captain's here alright—but the entrance looked unexpectedly normal. Bright green carpets on a hardwood floor, egg-shell-gray wall moldings up to the waist, green and yellow flower-patterned wallpapers up to the ceiling. Paintings, busts, and vases decorating every wall and table surface I could see. And, except for the muddy footprints the guards had caused, everything was clean and polished.

I took off my wet coat and gave it a light shrug as I took in the surrounding, folded it over my arm as I made my way through the short entry.

The decorations showing off luxury only increased as I made my way into the main hall—all high ceiling and rounded stairs—chandelier and all. Expensive doors and lit silver candles.

That's the bank district for you. Didn't matter who you were or what you worked with, if you lived here, it showed. And, sure, as a lieutenant for the city guard taxes paid the rent, but that was a shitty excuse, taxes never pay for the inside.

Why wasn't I placed in charge of this district? A brief touch of envy scolded over me but it washed away as quickly as it had been born, for a dark ill-boding suspicion began to beg the question—why was I standing in Andane's house?

"There you are," a familiar grumpy voice spoke from my side.

"Captain," I greeted as I turned, feeling that old need to straighten myself in the presence of higher rank.

Sure enough, he was puffing on that fat-headed snub pipe of his—made me wish I had brought my own—as he walked over, cupping it with his fingers as he audibly drew in the smoke, soon followed up by an exhausted exhale—white thick smoke forcing their way through relaxed lips on a clenched mouth, as he eyed me up and down.

"That's how you dress to a crime scene? Where's your uniform?" he mumbled with the pipe back in his mouth.

So it _is_ a crime scene—nothing in the room said it was. "I was told to hurry?"

"What for? He's already dead," he mumbled after another tired inhale before taking the pipe out of his mouth and he indifferently taped out the ashes on the polished desk beside him.

Already dead? Then it is as I suspected. "Andane?" Still, I had to ask.

"M-hm…" he confirmed, tucking that pipe of his down his left jacket pocket, "sometime tonight."

"That's…" _too bad_ , I was about to say. His death didn't _feel_ that much, not that we ever were close.

We were colleagues, sure, but I always believed him too spoiled and 'brown-nosed' to get to know him outside of meetings and work—climbing rank because of the depths of his father's pockets kissing the right blue-blooded asses. The house was proof enough, sure, taxes paid the rent, but the decor screamed ¨daddy pays!¨ And with no wife to spoil, he spoiled himself with pretty shaped marmor, pretty shaped bottles, and pretty shaped ladies—of a questionable age if one listened to rumors. Though I can't deny him, the man had taste.

"So why am I here?" I asked, "Mornd lives closer, and after what happened to Rubarb, _he's_ your right-hand man."

"You've dealt with murders before," he said as if it was an explanation.

"Murder?" Sure, I've dealt with the occasional bar-fight-turned-stabbing and one too many triangle-dramas-gone-wrong—I always pitied how the women were the usual victims of those, ¨if I can't 'ave her, he sure can't!¨ Barbarians. "Sure… but so has Mornd."

"Mornd's still out of town…" he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

I had forgotten about that… temporary relocation for family purpose was it? About two weeks ago? Still, I had believed him to return by now.

"So right now, you're the only one I have," he continued, still rubbing away. Though now I got the feeling he was rubbing away annoyance for that very fact—he always chose me last.

It had taken me a while to overcome the indignation of that, when I first became a Lieutenant, sitting on the sidewalk while the ¨trophies¨ paraded. But it didn't take me long to realize the truth of how this city worked: Have the right parents. As ugly as it was, this is Wayrest—being born with the right family-name meant _far_ _more_ than the quality of one's character . . . or efforts.

Everybody loved hearing how the Bank Owner's son solved a case, or how the Duke's nephew busted a skooma den. Not to mention the reputation and donations it brought the City Guards. But whenever a _nobody_ did good, it was nothing more than a pat on the shoulder and a ¨good job¨ from people who didn't even care to learn my name.

And me? I was a pure-blooded _nobody_. Born and raised by _nobodies_ , on a street of _nobodies_ , befriending _nobodies_ , living the life of _nobody_ … and _that's_ the sole reason he kept me on the sidewalk even after I got made lieutenant. Even put me in charge of the _Merchant District_ so the only people I ever got to work with were strangers and the occasionally reoccurring travelers, in other words, I never got to deal with anyone of influence or importance. A _nobody_ stationed amongst the temporary.

So how did I become a lieutenant? Well, not by having the right hands shake the right names with empty promises on fake smiles. No. ¨He got lucky, caught a break,¨ they had said, ¨the right place at the right time,¨ ¨He had it easy,¨ and so on. All excuses avoiding the truth they relucted: they sucked, I didn't. Not gonna lie, it had been the opposite of ease—been with the guards since 16 and worked trice as hard as any and all spoiled competitors who only had to stick their nose up the right crack to smell their next raise.

Still, I was almost 40 by the time it actually paid off. In other words, the Captain knew my worth. But as a political piece, I was worthless—no one donated the guards' gratitude for the success of a nobody. Fuck 'em all.

"Well, might as well get this over with. This way," he said with a small nonchalant wave of his hand and moved with heavy steps for the stairs.

Thin lips and coat in hand, I followed.

"Can't wait for the paperwork on this one," he spoke with sarcastic sighs as we climbed the stairs, "there will be a _shit-ton_. Not to mention the _shit-storm_ that'll rain down on me when I'll have to explain to the Duke how I've lost yet _another_ of my Lieutenants to yet _another_ ¨animal attack.¨" His tone took on that off pissed-annoyance as he scratched the gray hair by the base of his neck as he sighed. "And with the festival coming up tomorrow—or today is it?—the last thing I need is city-wide rumors unsettling the citizens when they should be celebrating."

"Another?" I asked, "You mean Rubarb?"

"Eh—yes… _Rubarb_ ," he answered, clearing his throat between the words—something I've long since learned the old man does whenever he's hiding something. Needless to say, one eyebrow up, the other down. "Here we are," he said as we finally reached the double door between the two stairways. "Though…" he hesitated as he grabbed the door, "I should warn you, it's quite gruesome."

"I doubt it's worse than anything I've seen," I said—hauled my fair share of bloated, fish eaten, corpses by the docks while I still did grunt work. Drunken sailors too young and high on upcoming adventures to know the difference between sea-legs and booze-legs—all too late they learned their lesson.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," he said pushing forward as he walked through the door.

It was a library: tall bookshelves between the high rain covered windows on the opposite walls, more toward the right. Though the first thing to grab my attention was the signs of struggle—flipped over couch table, broken vases, and a torn aside tasseled rug. The usual signs—all text-book.

"Over there," he said, pointing my attention to the left.

"By the Eight…" A whisper I didn't intend to let out as my jaw dropped and I felt the blood leave my face. There was Andane, lying on the floor in front of a fireplace—feet toward us—in a pool of his own blood, guts, torn out of his stomach, hanging down his side.

"Get's uglier," the Captain said as he made his way over to the body, waiving his finger toward the head, "What 'you make of this?"

I drew for air, but that only made me aware of the smell—blood, and foul intestine odor—and that breath quickly took the form of a gag that needed to be stopped by my hand. I felt sick.

Reluctantly, I walked across the room with suspicion. Felt like one of those moments when you knew you'd be better off turning back—stomach's weaker than the job—and as if taken straight out of a horror story, a flash of white lightning lit up the body as I got up close.

"Oh, what in Oblivion!" I exclaimed—as unintentionally as last time—as Andane's head came into view—head squeezed flat from the sides, nose pointing straight up, eyes popped out of their sockets, hanging in their nerves, front teeth standing straight out of the gums while he maulers had gathered down his throat as they had been pressed in, and worst of all—the final piece my stomach couldn't take—top of the head burst open—all blood and brain on the floor.

I turned away, bending over as I felt sick to my bones, throat clamping up as my stomach already forced out the content of my missed breakfast—nothing but sour acid and bile—eyes tearing up as it quickly turned into a painful dry heave.

"Told you," the Captain spoke indifferently behind me as the stomach cramps finally began to settle—not for lack of disgust, there's still plenty of that.

Still bent over, I reached down my vest pocket and took out the cotton handkerchief to press against my lips, a brief moment of dotting and wiping before I forced myself to straighten up and swallow back that dry-sour taste where it came from. "Fuck me," I mumbled as I built up the strength to turn back. Bloated corpses with eaten eyes're one thing, but that? That's just plain horrid.

Cotton against dry lips I finally worked up the stomach to look back, "You sure that's him?" I asked. Honestly, face as it was, I couldn't tell.

"Clothes are his, as well as his family ring." –he pointed at the ring on his finger– "And who else'd be in his house at this hour?"

"Sure," the clothes fit, ring too, and the blond hair on his… cracked open skull.

"So…" he cleaned his throat, "What do you think?"

I had to draw for air. I honestly didn't know _what_ to think. Though, I finally got the ¨animal attack¨ cover—it did look like an honest to God animal attack; as if an actual bear had gotten to him. "You sure this is murder?"

"Don't tell me you're buying into that bullshit cover story?"

"Never did," I'd be a fool if I thought a bear could sneak through city-walls and up the second floor of a locked residence to maul a man to death, and, on top of it all, get away. "But… I don't know yet. I'll have to take a look around before jumping to conclusions."

"You do that," he said in ponder.

"Any witnesses?" I said, straightening up as I turned away from the corpse—the stench remained.

"Not much," he said. "One neighbor thought she heard screaming and… a roar."

"A roar?"

"Not even sure about that one—said she first thought it was the thunder. Either way, she's a dead end—saw nothing and, as I said, blamed most of what she heard on thunder."

Well… if one had a taste for murder, tonight's the perfect night for it—weather covering up any cry for help.

"Who found the body?"

"The housemaid found him. Poor thing was running through the rain, screaming for the first best guard she met not even an hour ago."

"Housemaid? In the middle of the night? She here?"

"Downstairs. I talked to her already but," he sighed, "Well, she's a bit shaken up to say the least."

"I'll have to talk to her."

"Though as much—it's why I kept her here."

"Yes," I said, turning my attention to Andane . . . the body. "I'll have a look around here before I see her."

"I'll leave you to it then," he said, reaching down his pocket to bring out his pipe and tobacco sack again. "I'll head down and have a talk with the men, let'em know not to spread rumors," he lit a match and sucked the flame into the pipe, puffing trice as the tobacco came alive. "That goes for you too…" he said after a deep inhale and exhale of smoke, "As far as rumors go, this is nothing more than a freak animal attack."

"You really think people will buy that?"

"That's my job to worry about, you focus on yours—find out who did this?"

" _Who_?" I said as I glanced back at him, "I'm not entirely sure it's a ¨ _who¨_ that did this."

"Well then figure out _what_ ," he said as he began heading for the door, "I'll be back as soon as I've dealt with the others."

"Fuck me," I mumbled, "Light a candle would you," I said as I turned to look at the body, "I'm gonna need some light."

"Sure thing." He lit the candle and left right after.

Left me in the dark library. Left me in the light of a single candle and a brief flash of white. Left me in the silence of nothing but sharp thunder and rain against windows. But at least I wasn't alone—though I've been with the company of fairer faces.

I unfolded the old trench coat and reached for my pipe in its right pocket, only to, with a sigh, be reminded that I left it at home.

An annoyed smack of my tongue against the roof of my mouth as I leaned back where I stood and looked up at the ceiling with another sigh.

I remember now… I always hated the night shifts.


	2. Morn of Mondas

Another flash of white lit the room, quickly followed by thunder, as I walked across the room to grab the lit candle on the cupboard by the door. I placed my coat on the cupboard before I pried the red wax-candle loose from its stand and held it as I moved around the room; setting fire to other candles as I passed them, until the room was finally bright enough to see—somewhat—clearly in.

The rain smattered on the windows as I pressed the candle back in its original stand. Tap-tap-tap-tap! I always found that sound to be relaxing, and the divines know I needed it right now. "Well…" I mumbled to myself as I looked straight forward at the red wallpaper above the cupboard: I needed a breather before this. But… "better get to work."

Deep breath, I turned for the body, took the handkerchief from its pocket, and pressed it lightly against my face to keep out the smell.

He looked even more gruesome in the light: every wet color of blood and open insides reflecting candlelight. Still, it surprised me how quickly one got used to gruesomeness—stomach turned lesser at the sight this time.

I walked over to the body and lowered myself to a squat wit slight effort, hated to admit it but knees aren't what they were five years ago. I pressed the handkerchief harder against my mouth and nose, still, the smell made it through.

"Alright, Andane. Let's find out what killed you…" I mumbled through the cloth to myself: not looking forward to this, "assuming it's murder."

Another calming breath, I looked down at his stomach. Hard as it was, managing to look past the intestines it looked as if his stomach had been ripped… no… clawed open?: three diagonal cuts parallel with one another, deep enough that they had ripped out the bowels—blood all around.

Hm… even if someone had tried to dress it up as animal claws, they were too parallel for three separate cuts. No single blade could've done that, not to mention pull out the insides with the cuts. Only claws did make sense… or perhaps… a claw-like weapon? I suppose it's possible. Moving on then:

Torso's fine. There was something around his neck: an amulet of Stendarr—didn't know he was an active believer, but then again, I didn't really know the man outside of work—well, not like it's uncommon. Head then…

Rarely was I reluctant toward the main dish, but here goes—God forbid I look too long.

Nothing new: head flattened from both sides 'till the eyes'd shot out: jaw bone presses together: cheeks pressed inward, cheek-bones crushed with them, as well as his forehead and skull. I leaned left to check the top of his head—Maras mercy—it was cracked wide open as if the insides had shot out the top of his skull: a pool of blood on the floor from the gaping hole.

I had to pull myself back, pressing the handkerchief even harder against my face as gag reflex kicked in: head feeling light for a second: that's far beyond the most gruesome thing I've ever seen.

I've seen more than enough of that, I thought as I again pressed the cloth tight to my face, feeling the nausea soothe as I leaned even further back, away from the head: a couple of deep breaths as I looked elsewhere to force back the repulsion crawling back down my throat before I mustered up the strength to return to his face.

Just what in the name of Julianos could've done this? To squeeze a man's head flat? Assuming its murder dressed up as an animal attack: some type of press? A vise? That'd leave marks.

Again, I leaned forward for a closer look. But there were no marks on his temple, they were simply pressed in.

No, wait?… There is something.

To the best of my observation: tiny deep cuts or… imprints along the edge of the flattened skull: teeth marks? Made sense but… what animal has jaws strong enough to crush a man's skull?

Bear and cougar did come to mind—there're enough of those in the woods all right—but that's ridiculous… beyond ridiculous. The day a bear or a cougar manages to sneak into a city, only to murder a man, and then sneak out unseen is the day I become a Daedra worshiper.

"Well…" I mumbled as I leaned back. If he's was murder dressed up as an animal attack, the culprit did a damn fine job: everything really did say some large beast did this. And I didn't like it. Not one bit. From what I'm thinking—but what I'm thinking doesn't make sense—the Captain was right to keep rumors on the down-low.

"So," I mumbled as I rose back up on my feet, "if a beast killed you, what was it doing here? And how?"

I looked over the dark windows, vision going across each and everyone to the right—the rain had subsided.

Not that then. But there were still the signs of a struggle.

I turned and walked over to the couch as I looked over the area. The old red expensive-looking couch looked untouched. But the small table—I assume had been in front of it—was overturned toward the windows as if something had grabbed it by the left side and flipped it over. Judging by the shattered porcelain vase next to it, nothing had been on it but… well, the vase.

But it was the carpet that grabbed my attention: it looked as if it had been tugged at, pulled up at slightly torn places.

I leaned down on one knee and felt the soft fabric at one of the spots: torn line-like claw marks? 'Steps' where the beast had walked perhaps: continuing toward Andane's body—I could even make them out on the hardwood floor as the carpet ended. And… I looked around over the floor… I could only make them out between here and Andane.

I pulled at my soul patch in thought; creating that ¨popping¨ sound as my lower lip separated from my upper.

So not only did the beast have claws on his front arms, but hinds as well. It only added to my distressing suspicion. But that… this… doesn't make sense. Well, I rose, work forward, shall we.

But then how… if the beast was here… by the couch… and flipped the table before charging? What were you doing over there? And how did the table come between you and it? If the beast had entered, the table wouldn't have been in the way. It's almost as if the beast had been sitting on the couch before rising to charge. And, even more unsettling, judging by the claw-marks on the floor, it's as if the beast had simply appeared… and disappeared, once at the body. And as little sense as my growing theory already had, that made it have even less—it's not a full moon.

But yes, I thought, if the beast was here, what were you doing over there?

Again I made my way back to the body—equally confounded as unsettled for my thoughts—and studied the floor in his near proximity. The blood-splatter on the floor, to the left of the body, made sense with the slash across his stomach: a streak pattern. But the head? The pieces of… brain-matter? That didn't add up. It was too spread out over the floor: barely any of it by his cracked open skull.

He must have been standing up: that's the only explanation. Or at least, held upright as the beast bit his head.

And there was more—I had been too distracted by the blood and gore of it all to notice earlier: his officer-shirt was wet by his shoulders. Or damp, really. And why had he been wearing his uniform shirt at this hour—on a weekend—at home?

I looked down at his feet: he was wearing his boots. Not indoor shoes, but boots. The undersides of them were clean, but there was mud on top of them: still wet mud.

He had been somewhere. He had been somewhere, recently, before he died.

He must have brushed off his boots on the front door carpet, as he came home, and then made his way up here.

"Where have you been, Andane?" I mumbled to myself as I leaned down to check his pockets. "And at this late an hour?"

Blood soaked fabric and sticky fingers as I moved from one pocket to the other—I had to scoot my foot aside as not to step too close to the pool of blood—but except for his pocket-watch and half a fist of septims, they were empty.

Disappointed by the lack of clues I stood back up and again looked over the room. Something didn't add up. Why was he all the way over here, by the fireplace, if the beast had been by the couch? And why had he been outdoors recently enough before his death that he was still was damp?

Had he brought someone with him? Walked over here to light the fire, and turned to face a beast?

I walked back across the room, to the red couch, and placed my hand on the cushions to feel the fabric. It was dry. Had he brought someone with him, it'd be damp. So… someone was already here? Waited here then? If anyone had even been here at all? Perhaps…

I turned my head back across the room. The fireplace was no more than two steps away from the body.

Again I walked across the room, past the body, and stopped in front of the fireplace. The fire was long since dead but as I placed my hand on the stonework it was still warm.

So the fire was lit? Went out after his death? Then… He must have entered, wet, and he came here to dry himself. And turned to face a beast?

If that's the case, why did the beast wait? There's nowhere to hide, had he been waiting here, on the couch, Andane must have seen him as he entered and walked right past him across the room to get here. Did they know each other? But even if they did, why did the culprit wait?

I grabbed the poker and leaned toward the fireplace to confirm my suspicions. The fireplace held nothing but a pile of white ash—actually, burnt paper debris… quite a lot of burned paper… and cloth? Some type of fabric—burnt beyond recognition—could be anything really. But it was the paper that grabbed my attention.

I dropped down on my knees and put the poker aside, picking out pieces of burnt paper. There were enough ashes for folders—books—of paper to have been burnt. But none of the pieces I plucked out of the ash held anything even remotely close to readable: all scorched black or empty corners.

"Found anything?" A voice behind me startled—the Captain.

"Fuck me!" I jerked as the scare jolted my body and I boosted up to face him. "Don't sneak up on your people like that, still too young to die of a heart attack." I never even heard him enter the room for the depth of thoughts.

The Captain gave me a look, pipe held in mouth, as I settled; wiping my ash-covered fingers on my thighs. "Well, have you?" he asked.

I drew breath for a sigh and looked once more across the room as I straightened myself. "I have some thoughts, yes. But you're not gonna like them. And…" yet another sigh as I tried to pull together all the thoughts in my head: together into a firm bundle of something, "…it's not making any sense."

"Well, out with it."

¨Well, out with it,¨ he sais: as if I was that simple.

"Honestly, I'd say a werewolf did this." Just saying the words out loud made me aware of how ridiculous it sounded, "But it's not a full moon tonight, so that doesn't make any sense. And even if it had been, how could a werewolf possibly have entered a residence—much less the city—and left without anyone noticing. And judging by the claw-marks… " I gestured for the carpet and floor, "I'd say it did the impossible and simply appeared and disappeared out of nowhere."

"Some teleportation spell?" he asked, looking befuddled.

"A werewolf using magic?" I said with intended skepticism, "That'd be a first. And like said: no full moon. It's… honestly, everything about the attack sais: werewolf, but the circumstances of it all sais: that's impossible. An animal attack—as ridiculous as that is—would make more sense." Again, I looked over the room: the windows, the door, the claw marks, "And another thing I can't for the life of me figure out, is how it entered and left. Had it jumped in through a window, and out, the tracks would make sense. But the windows are all intact, painted shut even. And the door's intact as well, so it couldn't have entered through there… as I said: it's as if the beast appeared and disappeared out of nowhere." A sigh for the profanity of it: the more I thought of it, the less sense it made.

"So you have nothing," he said, "nothing concrete."

"No… Guess I'll have a talk with the housemaid next, hopefully, we'll learn something, anything really, that might shed some light on this."

The Captain looked down at Andane as he puffed on his pipe with a pondered, hard, face. "A werewolf, huh?" he said, taking the pipe out of his mouth, but if my ear was right, it almost sounded as if he had expected it. "Shit, Andane said the same thing," he mumbled in a low voice to himself as he looked away over the room.

What? "Andane said?" I asked, suddenly confused I looked down at him—Andane. Since when do dead men speak? Why did I get that feeling he was withholding something: I had gotten the same feeling earlier when we walked the stairs: the Captain might be a seasoned liar, but he was just as seasoned at letting them slip: a counterproductive set of traits for a man who so frequently took part in city-politics.

Seems it was his turn to sigh as he looked at me, obviously realizing his blunder with annoyance. "Ah well," he started, "You're in the shit now so I might as well tell you." Again he took a puff of suspense from his pipe before continuing, "I must admit haven't been completely honest with you…" I had figured as much. "Mornd didn't go out of town to see family, he too was murdered in his own house."

"What? Mornd's dead?" That's something I feel he should have mentioned the moment I got here—or, for fucks sake, two weeks ago when he ¨relocated¨—it was enough to make me pissed: how often the Captain left me outside the loop of things.

"Which reminds me," he continued in a tired, annoyed, voice, "I suppose congratulations are in order: I made Andane my second in command when I put him on the case.

"Andane? Second in Command?" Again: why haven't I heard of this?

"Signed the papers on Fredas, so I'm not surprised you haven't heard, but now that he's dead too, I suppose that title falls on you… ah-shit…" he trailed off, "That makes even more paperwork—I'm required by law to have a second in command. I'll have to rush the damn papers this time, but it'll still take more than a couple of days before it's official and—"

"No–wait," I waved away his distracted thoughts, "back to Mornd, when? Why haven't I heard of this?"

He turned his head as he came back to the presence. "When? Two weeks ago when I had him ¨relocated.¨" He chewed on the side of his tongue for a second as he planned his words, "As I said: I put Andane on the case and he said the same thing about Mornd: that it looked like a were—"

"Wait a second... Two weeks ago? That was a full moon."

"Right, which is why I believed him and we had to cover it up: last thing we need is people talking of a werewolf getting past city-walls and city-guards alike, invading people's residences? The whole city would be in terror," he smacked his lips in annoyance, "But with what you've said here… I'm no longer so sure that's the case."

First Mornd… and now Andane? A chilling question ran up the back of my neck as I squeezed my lower lip with my fingers, "How did Rubarb die?"

"Rubarb?" His eye-brows took on the form of a ¨What?¨ "An animal attack."

"Bullshit," I said, this is beyond a coincidence.

"No, took place outside city-walls and all. Mauled by a bear—sent Mornd on that one and he confirmed it right away."

I'm not buying it, not by a long-shot, "So you're telling me, three of your four Lieutenants have died, within the span of a month, and you still believe the first one to be genuine?" The whole thing stank to the skies: fear-inducing scent from a childhood nightmare.

"Well…" he said with a sudden tension for nervosity, "…maybe you shouldn't be so quick to celebrate that promotion."

"No shit," I said: first Rubarb? Mornd two weeks later. And now Andane, again, two weeks. "It sounds like something is hunting your lieutenants, Captain." And by the looks of it, I'm next: a feeling if horror and electric dread set itself throughout my insides: I still had no idea what had killed them. But if there was a silver lining, two weeks, that was it.

"Hunting my lieutenants…" he mumbled, biting on the mouth of his pipe. "You always did have a sharp head…" A sharp head?! I thought the pattern was beyond obvious! "Well, try and not let it get to you, the last thing I need is my last lieutenant scared shitless."

Easy for him to say: if I'm right, I could have been any one of them. The fact that I'm the least known Lieutenant might just be what saved me for last: never thought I'd be grateful for that fact. But if the pattern continues, no, let's assume for the sake of my sanity that it will, I still have two weeks… Two weeks before whatever monstrosity did this will come for me.

But let's push that fear aside for as long as I can muster: there's still time. "What can you tell me of Mornd's murder?"

"Nothing you don't already know: took place in his home, torn open, Andane suspected a werewolf attack. You'll have to read through the files for more."

"You read them?" It is, after all, a captain's responsibility to keep up to date with the work of his subordinates. And I'd think something like this would take priority?

"It was still an ongoing investigation," he said: sounded like an excuse was incoming, "and with the festival coming up, I have enough papers on my desk as is to add to that pile. You know how it is." Know how it is? The festival? Again, I'd think something like this would take priority over signing stand-permits, import rights, and requests to quarter. Again I felt the heat rising, I was getting pissed—angry even—prioritizing the festival over the life of his men?!

"He didn't send you progress-reports?" At least tell me he's read those!

"Asked him not to, as I said, I have enough paperwork as is."

"Oh fuck me," I said with heated annoyance—felt like the final straw—this bordered on straight-up incompetence, not to mention the clear connection to Rubarb's death! "¨Asked him not to?!¨"

"Watch your tone, Lieutenant." He said with a stern look, "I trust my men to work without my head over their shoulder. And I've been working my ass off, covering this whole thing up, and now, I'll have even more covering up to do before we have a city-wide panic calling off the festival: you know the tourism it brings, the city can't afford that."

"The city? More like the Duke." It's always about the septims, that bag of gold.

"You've been around long enough to know how it is: it's all money and politics, the city lives off of it. We push murders and killings under the rug all the time, this is no different!"

"No different?" I'd just about had it: money and politics? The same old excuses—I hated it for good reason: I grew up having neither, learned to live without them. Only the ¨Nobles¨ cared for such trivia! "These are no mere killings, something's hunting your men!"

"That's enough, Lieutenant!" he flared up, all red-nosed and sharp bite, "I'm your superior and I won't tolerate your tone any longer. So you just worry about your job and I'll worry about mine!"

The tension was stiff in the air, pressing against skin both from outside and within. Whenever the two of us got in an argument, it was always for the same reason: I was a man of the people, he was a man of politics: I cared for lives, he cared for appearance.

But it's not like I felt the people should know—actually I was all for the cover-ups: a panic's the last thing they need—but if the Captain spent more time and interest in the work of his men, and less time in the Duke's pocket—rubbing his ¨magic-wand¨ through the fabric 'till ¨money and praise¨ shot out the top—I wouldn't have to voice resentment in the first place.

But, that's the good thing about being a nobody: no one cared enough to have me fired—and since I was his hardest working man—least of all the Captain, no matter our differences.

It was a tiny victory at the cost of our relationship: sabotaging any future promotions. But that's always been the last thing on my mind: when I became a lieutenant I had already reached higher than I ever thought possible. No, wait… I just became second in command—unofficially as it may be—so I'm now higher than I ever thought possible: even if I did come with a death sentence. Look at that.

"Well," I sighed back the frustration through my nose looking away: I had almost forgotten about the corpse as I looked it over. "I'm gonna need to see those files."

"Sure thing," he mumbled bitterly, bringing the pipe to his lips to take a much-needed puff to soothe his nerves only to discover it had gone out and he had to light another match before it could give him the satisfaction he craved. "They should be in the office."

"Save that for later then." Thoughts back at the matter at hand: I still had no idea what did this, and the werewolf theory simply didn't make sense, even less now: what am I missing? "Guess it's time to see the housemaid." Maybe she can shed some light on things.

"She's downstairs, I'll lead the way," he said through the puffs as he turned. I grabbed my coat and followed.

Bitter silence followed us closely as we left the room, and continued as we walked down the stairs.

"In here," he said as he went for the door to the left at the bottom of the stairs.

A living room met us as we entered: more high windows with silk curtains, tall candle-stick lamps, expensive furniture, paintings, bookshelves, and yet another fireplace—the whole ordeal of a spoiled banker's son.

Pretty little auburn-haired Breton sat on the couch: pointy ears, blushed cheeks, and all teary-eyed as she looked at us over her shoulder. She had clearly been crying. But after discovering that piece of nightmare, who could blame her? And of course, she was young—why wasn't I surprised—didn't even look to be in her twenties yet.

"Sorry for keeping you so long," the Captain stated as we made our way into the room, "This is Lieutenant Werinwr, he'll be in charge of the investigation from now on and have some questions for you."

"Miss," I greeted for the introduction, looking her over. She was wearing a typical maid outfit: ankle long white dress, black corset over the apron, and one of those white headwear I never cared to learn the name of—bonnad, bonned? Meh, bon-something.

"Hi," she squeezed out with a broken voice, "Can I… can I get you anything? Tea or—"

"No need," I said, gesturing reassuringly for her to sit back down as she had begun to rise: the poor thing's so shaken she must have gone into work-routine.

Well, we all have our coping methods, and denial by habit is easy to fall back on: there's comfort in the ¨no need to think¨ of it all. But here's another ugly part I never liked about the job, especially with a case like this: I needed her to think.

"So," I continued as I folded the coat over the backrest of the cushioned armchair and sat down on the edge of it: elbows on my knees as I looked at her over the table corner. "I'm sorry but, I have some questions about the evening that you might be able to help with."

"I—I don't…" she stammered through the cry in her voice, hesitant in her words as she stared wet-eyed into the fireplace across the table.

"It's okay," I reassured calmly, "I know it might be hard, but anything you know might help."

"I… I don't… know if…" she continued with a weak voice: teary eyes and flickering looks as she evaded eye-contact.

I looked over her at the Captain as he made his way across the room, walking behind the couch before he stopped in front of one of the high windows to puff on his pipe as he stared off out into the dark.

"Why don't we start with something easy, shall we?" I said and reached forward; placing my left hand gently on hers in an attempt to grab her attention, and perhaps calm her a little. And it seemed to work as she finally managed to look me in my eyes and I took back my hand. "Why were you here so late an hour?

"I… I live here," she said, sniffling as she fumbled her thumbs over her intertwined fingers.

"You live here?" I asked in a calm voice: it wasn't uncommon for housemaids to live at their workplaces—especially not if they worked for someone rich—but now that I had her talking full sentences—albeit short ones—I might as well go on with the subject: half a foot through the door and all that.

"Y—yes. It's… I. I get to live here." She still had her attention to her hands. But at least she was speaking in a somewhat clearer voice.

"I see. And what is it you do?"

"I… clean… And cook."

"Does he pay well?" A careful sentence to bring Andane into the subject.

"Not really…" she said, still fumbling her fingers. "Which is why I get to live here and eat here," she suddenly said, looking up at me, as if she had to justify her original statement—God forbid a simple peasant speaks ill of her employer.

"Well," I said reassuringly, "you have work, food, and to live in a house like this? That's a lot better than some have it. Don't you think?" sure as hell a lot better than I had it when I was her age.

"I guess," she said, again looking down at her continuously fiddling fingers.

"So… about tonight?" I said carefully. She seemed calmer now: calm enough that I felt it comfortable moving on, still, I didn't wanna rush her. "Why don't you walk me through the evening, can you, before you found him?"

"Before I?—" she suddenly looked up.

"It's okay," I interrupted, no need in moving forward too fast. "Was it a normal day?"

"Normal day? It… was."

"Nothing strange, before? Any sounds or?"

"No…" she said, returning to her hands, "It… was a normal day."

"And how about the evening? Anything strange then?"

"No."

"Tell me what you were doing at the time, again, before."

"I was…" she started, "I was locking the backdoor… as I do every evening. And then I…"

"Go on."

"Then I prepared for bed. But when I walked to the main hall and went to lock the front door, I noticed his coat was gone."

"His coat?"

"Yes… the long one. I—I assumed he was out somewhere. So I didn't lock the door and went to clean up the library before I went to bed, because…" she suddenly drifted off; looking away.

"Because?" I said for her to continue: knowing fully well we were treading onto the hard part.

"Because… That's strange." She suddenly sounded confused: eyes lost in thought: eyebrows going deep. "Because I thought he had had— No… No he… But then why did I?…"

I briefly looked up at the Captain across the room, as he gave me a glance over his shoulder before I returned my attention to her.

"Had he had company?" I asked, said. If he had, that would be one important clue. "Is that what you were about to say? Because he had had company?"

"What?" she turned for me as she snapped out of her thoughts, "No. I… I don't remem… no! No one's been here all evening."

"What about before that?" If not tonight then perhaps earlier, "During the day?"

"No," she insisted, shaking her head slightly. "He spent all day alone, said he didn't want to be disturbed."

"Why didn't he want to be disturbed?"

"I don't know—he had a lot of work?"

"Are you sure no one's been here today?" I needed to know.

"I would've remembered if someone had been here!" she suddenly snapped as if I had insulted her profession.

"Okay. Okay." I reassured, gesturing slightly with my hands to calm her. "So… you went to the library."

"Yes, I went to the library and that's when I… I… Oh—by the gods." She suddenly broke down crying as the memories hit her: pictures causing her mind horror.

"That's when you found him." I finished her sentence.

Crying into her hands, she seemed too far off for comfort, still, I tried as I again reached to hold her hand. It was hard not to feel sorry for the girl. Her relationship to Andane hardly mattered: that scene would case any civilian to break down. Though, knowing Andane, if it was more or less of an employer-employee relationship: and I wholeheartedly hope it was less.

"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? Somewhere other than here, I mean," I asked.

"Y—yes… my—my mother lives not too far from here," she answered through the sobs, squeezing my hand.

"That's good. You just wait here for now and I'll get someone to escort you—you shouldn't walk alone this late, or, at all," I said as she calmed enough for me to pull back my hand.

I signaled for the Captain with a nod as I rose, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door to leave the room with him.

"Well that was a waste of time," the Captain said in a low voice as he closed the door behind him.

"Not at all," I said, reflecting on the conversation, "she told me more than she might have realized."

"That so?" he said with hidden skepticism.

"Yes. She said she was locking the backdoor—as she does every evening—before she found him."

"So?"

"So: it couldn't have taken her more than ten minutes to find him after locking the door. If she locks the door every evening and found him not soon after, why was it the middle of night when she ran for help?"

"Hmm… you think she saw more than she's telling?"

"I do," I said thoughtfully. It would explain the missing time-window. "She might have witnessed the whole thing. But she said she didn't remember."

"How could she've forgotten if she witnessed more than his body?"

"Repressed memories?" I said, "It's not uncommon, especially not with young people—I've seen it before. Perhaps she saw something so horrid that she blocked the memories out? Or passed out, came too later."

"And the next thing she remembered was running for help?"

"exactly."

"That's… Think her memories will return?"

"Hard to say. They might, they might not."

"Well in that case it's not much help, is it?" There was a slight bite in his voice as if to prove his original statement: a waste of time.

"No. But other than that, she also said it had been a calm evening, day even."

"Neighbor heard screaming," he said, poking his pipe against his lips as the thought had struck. At least he caught on to something.

"Exactly. So if she's been here all day, why didn't she?"

"More repressed memories?"

"Most likely. But then there's his coat."

"His coat?"

"Andane's shoulders were still wet, or damp, as if he had been out somewhere and worn a soaked through coat."

"Makes sense, it's been raining all night."

"Yes, and I found burnt fabric in the fireplace."

"Ah, You're thinking he burnt his coat. Why?"

"I don't know yet," I pondered, "What would motivate a man to burn his own coat?"

"Hum… All I can think of is to get rid of evidence. Perhaps he had something in its pockets?"

"Then why not burnt whatever was in his pockets? Why burn the entire coat?"

"Blood on it?"

"Thought about that too, at first. But he's the victim, why cover anything up?"

"Hmm…" he said, remaining in thought for a while before he looked back at me, "Well, it does seem you have your hands full with this one."

"Quite so… So what's next?"

"I'll have two men take the body to the Coroner, he might figure out more. You should go see him next, I'll get you the address—"

"No need, I've dealt with him before."

"Good. Shouldn't take him more than a couple of hours: go see him then. As for now, I'll have the luxury of waking up the Duke—looking forward to that discussion: not to mention all the paperwork this whole mess will cause… and the rumors."

"I'll keep you updated," as said as we headed for the exit.

"Do that."

¨do that,¨ so now he's for doing his damn job.

* * *

"Look at that, clouds got some color," he said as we exited into the still dark street.

The sunrise, huh: yellow-white light attempting to push through the dark-gray ceiling of clouds, guess that means it's too late—or rather early— to head back home for that bed of mine, but then again, I doubt I'd get any more sleep after this night.

"Hey! You two!" the Captain shouted for two men, walking away toward them as they reacted. Knowing the task they were about to get, I didn't envy them the slightest: glad I'm past those days.

"Your horse, sir," a young guard said as he approached.

"Just leave it there for a while," I said, hinting to a lamppost as I took in the morning air: wet, foggy, and cool. I tried to feel the morning sun on my face, but it didn't get through the clouds.

I looked over as he tied the horse to the lamppost and remained standing, waiting patiently with his hands behind his straightened back. I recognized him now:

"You're the one who woke me up, aren't you?" I asked.

"Sorry about that, sir. The Captain said—"

"No, I'm the one who should apologize," I interrupted.

"Sir?" he said with a tilt of his head, dark, thin, eyebrows pushing together.

"I yelled at you and you just did as told—your job," I said, "You didn't deserve that. I have a bad morning temper is all, and you happened to be at the sharp end of it."

"I'm… I'm sorry, sir, I'm not used to officers apologizing."

Call it one of those I-see-myself-in-him moments, but his clearly over-attempted posture and politeness toward me did remind me of myself—well, twenty years ago me perhaps: I had been the same: before I learned the hard way that ass-kissing only paid off if your tongue had already been feed from a silver-spoon.

"Well," I started at his confusion hidden well behind that attempted soldier-face, "Most officers never had to do any grunt work. They simply had the luxury of being born with the right name—like our Andane here—but I grew up on the streets, worked myself up, against all odds. So I like to remind myself that I, too, once walked in your shoes. Keeps myself grounded, ¨down to the earth,¨ and what-not." He fell silent for a moment, discretely looking around as he clearly, either, didn't believe me, or, looked at the other men to see if he was about to get his leg pulled from beneath him.

Well, I'd acted the same if an officer had apologized to me when I was his age: suspect I was getting messed with. But I wasn't' just any officer: I was a nobody made officer, and I liked to tell myself that that fact made me different: different in a better way, rather than the stay-in-the-background way it actually did, "and trust me," I said after a moment to grab his attention," the grass isn't always greener on the other side."

Honestly, it felt good to look at a confused young face after all this—a bit humorous if you will—but still, it didn't change the dread that seeped within me from all I learned inside.

Two weeks…

"Lieutenant Marshog," the boy suddenly mumbled to himself.

"You knew him?"

"I'm under his command," he said, "or was… Is it true he was murdered?"

"Yes," I said plainly. No need to hide it, if he was under his command he'd hear the truth sooner or later. "At least it looks that way."

"So… it wasn't an animal attack? Like the Captain said?"

"No," I answered, "But don't go spreading that around."

"No, sir. Of course not, sir." Again, he was back on his tippy-toes: sir this, sir that.

"What's with all the sir?"

"I'm… sorry, si—" he stopped himself before continuing, "Lieutenant Marshog was very strict on that."

Of course, he was: spoiled banker's son, wasting no time to get high on authority and power. I'm sure he took pleasure in ordering around guards twice his age as if they were his personal dogs—distasteful. But to tell the truth, they were all like that: blind to the value of the common guard. But wait… if he worked under Andane?

"What else can you tell me about him?" I asked.

"Of the Lieutenant?" he asked reluctantly, "I'd rather not speak ill of—"

"He's dead," I interrupted, screw politeness, straight to the point gets the job done, "and it's only you and me."

"Well… in that case, sir, I—"

"Enough with the sir," I interrupted once again, "Makes me feel older than I already am."

"Sorry I… Well, to be honest, he wasn't that good of a commander."

Not surprised there, but: "Why?"

"Well I always felt he never took the job seriously, and he spent more time with… well…" he gave me a sideways look and made a face that described precisely what the end of that sentence would. But it was nothing I didn't already know.

"I get it," I said with an upwards nod at his facial hint. "But how about lately? Last couple of days, what's he been up to?"

"I don't know, really. I don't tend to hang around my superiors over weekends. Even if I'd get invited."

Makes sense—why would he? It was worth a try, I suppose.

"That him?" he suddenly asked with a withheld tone in his voice.

Following his look, I turned. Two men were pulling out Andane's body through the door, one on each side, as they had him rolled up in the carpet from the library. It looked as suspect as it could, but that's how things were done when it was on the down-low: hiding both identity and wounds from accidental onlookers.

"I guess you're out a superior," I said as we watched them. But then the thought hit me, he already knew more than any of my men, so why not? I could use a ¨wall¨ to toss ideas against. "Wanna work for me?" I said as I turned my head for him.

He gave a slightly stunned look as he turned for me before answering: "I… I doubt I can be of much use, as I said: I didn't know much of the Lieutenant."

"That's fine, I have something else for you."

"Of course, sir," he said, hands tightening behind his back as he straightened up again, "What do you need me to do?"

"Go inside and make sure the housemaid gets home safely, escort herself if you can't find anyone else to do it: tell them I said so,"

"Sure thing, I can do that."

"Once she's taken care of, I want you to head up to the library. Before he died, Andane burnt quite the amount of papers, if that's not connected to the case, I don't know what is."

"Papers in the fireplace," he repeated to confirm.

"Yes. Go through all of it, if there's as much as a single readable letter on a piece, bring it to the office: I wanna see it."

"I'm on it," he said, making way for the door.

"And by the way…" I said after him—can't believe I didn't think to ask sooner, "What's your name?"

"Julian," he answered. Didn't mention his last name? Well, in this city, that meant it wasn't worth mentioning: a commoner.

"Julian?" I repeated. For a Breton, it wasn't that a common name.

"Yes, sir. After Julianos, my mother thought if she named me after a god, his smarts would rub off on me."

"Julain, then." From Julianos, eh: The God of intelligence and logic. Fitting. "I think we'll get along just fine… Now go take care of that girl."

"Yes, sir," he said as he scurried off.

"And enough with the sir!" I shouted after him.

So, I thought as I watched him enter the building before I turned to face the empty street and watch the men heave Andane's body over a horse to take it away, guess I have a couple of hours to kill before I go see the Coroner.

First Rubarb, then Mornd, and now Andane? Two weeks between each. And it's undoubtedly clear that I'm next.

Two weeks, eh…

What a mess—Fuck me—what a mess.

All seemingly murdered by what looks like a werewolf, but can't possibly be a werewolf. And if it against all logic had been a werewolf, why didn't it kill the maid? Werewolves are animalistic, feral: had she seen it, it'd killed her too.

Just what in Oblivion have I gotten myself into?


	3. Mondas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is done!  
> Turned out a lot longer than I had anticipated.  
> Seems a lot can happen in one day.
> 
> I hope you'll like it, and, hopefully, it doesn't make the plot any clearer than I intended. I like to give more questions than answers, so I hope the mystery remains as long as possible.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Hello!" I said out loud, shaking the rain off my hat as I entered the narrow hallway with the familiar paintings. Stairs to the second floor on the right, a backdoor straight out on the opposite side, and an opening to the dinner-room and kitchen on the left. "Hello?" I repeated over the sounds of dishes coming from the kitchen. I could hear her, but she didn't respond for the noises she made. "Hello," I repeated once more as I walked into the room.

"Oh, hi!" she said, looking over her shoulder as she finally noticed me. "Rare to see you here so early," she continues, as she faced forward and returned to her dishes, "We would've saved you some breakfast had we known you were coming."

"That's okay, I'm not staying long," I said, making my way into the dining room and placed the basket on the table before I sat down on one of the uneven wooden chairs, adjusting the officer's rapier on my hip for the table leg. "I just have a few hours to kill, thought I'd drop by."

"Ah…" she let out, "So you only pay your mother a visit when you have ¨time to kill¨ now, is it?"

So that's the humor we're on today. "I went by the market, brought fish," I said to change the subject, gesturing for the basket, "Trout. This early it's as fresh as it gets." She put a plate away and turned to face me, drying her hands on a square patterned towel. "And potatoes…" I continued, "…bread, vegetables—carrots and what-not. I even bought a bottle of mulled wine—they're selling it now."

"What's all this?" she asked, confused.

"Actually, it's… the real reason I'm here," I said, "I got promoted—second-in-command— and thought we'd celebrate."

"Promoted?" she said confused before she lit up, "Clyfar! That's wonderful news!"

"No, it's n—" I began, yet she continued:

"Of course we will need to celebrate! Stand up so I can get a look at you."

"It's not official yet, but—" I started, but she eagerly kept on gesturing. Oh, here we go, I thought and sighed as I reluctantly rose. It doesn't matter how old you get: you'll always be a kid to your mom.

"Oh, how handsome you are in your uniform…" she said, all glee and prise s she looked at me, "sword and all."

"I look the same I did a year ago," I pitted in, but again, it didn't stop her:

¨Second-in-Command. I am so proud of you—your Father would be so proud of you."

"Ha. That, I doubted," I said demeaningly. I never knew what my mother saw in that man:

He worked for the East Empire Company—a sailor—traveling the seas for months at times before he returned home for a week or so, only to waste his hard-earned coin on cheap mead and dice before he went out on the sea again. A drunk, as he was, his view on raising a son was to beat the knowledge into him. He didn't stop until the day I beat him back. I was 16 then, had just joined the city-guard, gained some confidence. That hadn't sat well with him. Never saw him after that. Never regretted it either.

"Oh, don't be like that," she said, still smiling as she held out her arms, "come give your mother a hug, would you?."

Ugh, no matter how old you get. Still, she's the only hugs I give… and the only ones I get.

"Oh, if only you could find yourself a woman next," she continued happily as she let go, "I'd love to live to see a grandchild."

"Mother…" I complained, not the first time we had this discussion, "You know all good women my age are taken."

"Oh, I don't care if you find yourself a pretty little young thing. There are plenty of those who'd never refuse the ¨Second-in-Command.¨" she continued, smiling teasingly.

"Mom!" She always did have that way of making one feel embarrassed. What mother doesn't?

"Besides, women your age can't really have children anymore, can they?"

All I could do was shake my head and sigh: I'm not that old.

There was a sound as the backdoor opened, someone walking through the hallway before appearing in the dining hall opening.

"Hello, Captain!" his loud happy voice greeted as he saw me, instantly taking on a smile as he ducked through the doorway, "I thought that was you."

"It's Lieutenant," I said, taking me seat again, "But you know that."

"Meh," he let out with a smile, again, dismissingly waving his large hand as to brush it away, "you all look like captains to me."

"Varg," mother greeted.

"I fixed that roof for ya," he said as he looked over at her before he placed the toolbox on the floor, "All that's left now is to wait for the next storm… or I could just grab a bucket of water and head back up there."

"Oh, you're a God-send, Varg. But you don't need to do that."

"Thank Shor!" he laughed loudly, "That slippery roof? Thought I was gonna fall the entire time."

"But Varg?" she let out with a hint of sudden worry, "What happened to your arm?"

"What? this?" he said, lifting his arm in front of him, a cut on his forearm. "Hah," he laughed again, and once again waving away her worry with that large hand of his, "That saw of yours sharper than it looks!"

When I first meet Varg, it had been hard not to look past that rough, intimidating exterior of his. Tallest Nord I've ever seen. A large, muscular man with prime-physic, always ducking through doorways. Compared to us, Bretons, all Nords were tall, but Varg easily stood a head above his kin. And then there was that scar, or burn.

He had a large burn on the left side of his head: starting just behind his eye on his temple and stretching back, over, and above, his ear to end an inch or so behind it. It was always pale-red and the top-fold of his ear had melted into itself. Even though it was long since healed, his black hair and the sideburn part of his beard no longer grow there. Needless to say, it drew attention.

But managing to look past all of that, the only thing left was a happy going man with the heart of a child and a permanent smile on his face. His exterior may be rough and frightening, but his inside was all soft and warm without an ounce of violence.

Never judge a book by its cover, first impressions, and all of that.

"I'll take a look at it," Mother said as she turned for the kitchen part of the room and went over to wet a towel in a bucket.

"Meh," he dismissively let out again, rubbing his arm with his other hand, "It's just a scratch—I didn't even notice it, it's not even bleeding anymore."

"You sure?" she asked.

"Aye, besides, the roof took longer than I thought," he laughed again, "And those ships aren't going to unload themselves."

"You're heading for the dock?" I asked.

"Aye," he said eagerly, "Plenty of paying work down there."

Makes sense, with the festival starting today there are more wares coming in this day alone than any other day of the year. No sane shipmaster would turn down a strong Nord looking to carry crates.

"Thank you for breakfast, but I must be off," he said to finish, smiling toward my mother before he turned to leave, again, ducking under the doorway as he left.

I listened for him to leave before I turned to look at my mother: "Fixed the roof?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "the storm last night must have torn off a roof-tile or two, dripped straight into my bedroom. So I asked him to fix it."

"Well, I suppose if he's staying here, it's only right he helps with what he can."

"¨Helps with what he can¨?" she said, raising her eyebrows as if my comment had been naive. "He's doing more work than I have time to ask of him. Pokes in the garden before I've started my day, fixed the fence a couple of days ago, even re-painted it afterward, empties the outhouse. I once caught him scraping rust off all the tools in the shed—you know how rarely I use those—I told him it wasn't necessary, but ¨he was bored,¨ he said. No… Never sits still, that one. Poor cook though."

"I thought I said I'd fix the fence?" I asked, looking at her as she still looked toward the hallway.

"Well you never did, did you?" she said, turning for me.

"Fair enough…" I answered, slightly insulted at the fact. But with work, I had less and less time to come by. One of the reasons she had found someone else to help her with her daily life. "So, he's treating you well?"

"Oh, he's a godsend," she said, "might not be the brightest man I've meet, but he has a heart of gold… and laughs far too much to be boring. I know he's probably leaving once the festival is over, but was it up to me, that man could stay for as long as he wants to."

"So… no complaints?"

"Well, no. Or, I did have him sleep in the shed last night."

"What? why? Did he do something?"

"No-no-no, he wouldn't hurt a fly," she reassured, "Nothing like that. He's just a loud sleeper is all, and I need my rest."

"I see…" I said pondering. "Well, I'm glad he's working out for you. But, I should be going as well," I continued with a sigh, "Have the feeling I'll have plenty on my plate today."

"Speaking of plates," she said, nodding at the basket with a smile, "When should I have the fish done?"

"As I said," I started, holding the hilt of my rapier as I rose, "I have plenty of work today, so to supper might be better than dinner."

"Supper? It won't be as fresh by then."

"Cook it in advance and heat it on the stove later," I said, making myself ready to leave.

"I guess that works," she said behind me, "Don't be late or we'll start without you."

"I'll try," I said as I walked out the doorway.

* * *

"Clyfar? Come in, come in," the coroner said abruptly, gesturing briefly with blood-covered gloves as he turned back into the room. "Long time no see, by the way."

"Well, I always did consider that a good thing," I said as I followed him into the, as always, cold and foul-smelling room, watching him throw me a confused look over his shoulder, "Whenever my work takes me to you, it means someone's died."

"Ah! True-true-true," he let out, turning back forward.

"I don't mean to offend," I said. I always found it hard to grasp the emotions behind his words, he always spoke in a monotone and hurried voice. As if he was in a constant rush to go forward. But then again, people who make a living out of poking in corpses tend to adapt a cold form of humor.

"None taken," he said answered instantly.

"So, what do you have for me?" I asked as we approached the stone-slab in the center of the room.

Been a while since I set foot here, but it looked just like last time: stone floor, stone walls, small basement-windows almost touching the ceiling around the room, lit candles, torches, shelves and tables with jars with odd liquids in them, or saved organs, also saws, serrated blades, sharp knives, and other embowelment tools you'd expect to see here. And of course, the polished stone slab in the middle of the room: a different corpse with each visit. And this time, it was Andane. Naked, nothing but an old towel covering his privates.

"Did you… push his insides back in?" I asked reluctantly, suddenly disgusted by the sight: calling last night's memories.

"What?!" he let out, stopping to give a sudden look of judgemental humor, "By the divines, no. No-no-no, they're in a bucket over there," he finished, pointing his blood-soaked fingers at a metal bucket that I didn't feel like looking at before he went forward again. "I'll just get straight to the point," he said as he stepped up to the body, "I don't think a bear did this," he said, more a firm statement than a questioning comment.

Well, I knew that already, but he shouldn't: "What makes you say that?" I asked, keeping my distance for the discomfort it brought.

"Well it's obvious," he said, giving me a look, "When they brought in the body last night, they said ¨another bear attack,¨ so I assumed as much and got to work. But when…" he moved to the side as he spoke and leaned over Andane's torso for me to see, "…when I got to work on his stomach and noticed the exposed intestines and the shape of the cuts, I thought: damn guards can't tell the difference between a bear and a cougar."

"So… a cougar?" Unlikely, as I thought before. No idea what the guards had told him, but I doubt the Coroner knew Andane had been found in his own house if an ¨animal-attack¨ was the coverup they went with. "How so?"

"Cougar is only what I thought at first," he said, hastily gesturing with one finger, "You see, a bear doesn't claw open its victims, they press down on them with their entire weight, crushing ribs and organs, killing them that way. Sure they can claw at you, but since they lack the hook-shaped claws a cougar has their claws aren't designed to pull out intestines."

"So the wounds don't match?"

"Not the slightest," he blurted out, "But as I said, that's only what I thought at first. Come look at this," he said as he stepped to the side of Andane, leaning his own head disturbingly close to Andane's as he pointed at his head.

By Julianos, I thought with a deep breath as I reached for my handkerchief and pressed it against my face before forcing myself to step closer.

"What am I looking at?" I asked as I leaned in. Andane's eyes had been removed, no longer dangling in their nerves, and the teeth and mouth had been made more ¨presentable¨ as his lips were sewn shut. Still, it was repulsive.

"See here?" he said, pointing once at the mark by the base of Andane's skull before he, again, pointed at the next one an inch higher up, and again, higher up along the edge of his skull.

"The teeth marks?"

"Not teeth marks," he said, still pointing, "They're too far apart. And there are five of them, on each side."

"Five?" I said, leaning away as I took the handkerchief off my face, "As in fingers? Claws?"

"Exactly, they're claw marks," he said as he, too, leaned away from the corpse, "The tips of claws, to be more precise, pressed into his skull by two hands, large ones at that, as they crushed his skull."

"Fuck me," I let out.

"Here's the thing though, for an animal to…" he lifted his hands in front of him, mimicking the act, "…grab, and lift, someone by his head. And then…" he loudly slammed his hands shut with a sudden clap, "…crush his head? That act, in itself, requires thought, intention, at least some form of planning. No animal could do that, least of all a cougar."

Shiit… this case is only getting better, or, should say worse. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Lieutenant," he started, liking the inside of his lower lip, "whatever killed your man, it's sentient."

"Sentient?" Fuck me, don't tell me my original theory's right after all?

"Sentient," he repeated with a confident, yet disturbed, look.

"So…" I started, looking over at Andane. I had to ask: "in your professional opinion, what would you say did this?"

"Well…" he took on a pondering look as he, again, licked the inside of his lower lip, "That's where I'm at a loss. At first impression, I'd say…" Don't say it, "I'd say a werewolf did this." Fuck. "But that doesn't add up either."

"How so?" I asked slightly relieved, he clearly knew more than I did.

"They brought in the body last night, but there was—"

"No full moon," I interrupted to finish.

"Right," he said, "But feral werewolves are a thing, so a full moon might not be necessary. But I don't think—"

"No…" I interrupted sternly, pulling at my soul patch in thought, "There's no way a feral werewolf could have gotten inside the city unnoticed."

"The city?" he asked, giving me a sudden look.

Fuck, I hadn't meant for that to spill, "Forget I said that," I told, "You were saying?"

Still, his eyes lingered suspiciously for a moment before he seemingly dismissed my comment with a sigh, "Well, as I was saying: I don't think a werewolf did this."

"How so?" Sounded like good news, but it's still too early to jump to conclusions. If not a werewolf, then what?

"Because I've dealt with victims to werewolves before," he said before he gestured toward Andane, "For a werewolf, the injuries fit to a tee, but the end result of the body doesn't."

"What do you mean?" I probed confused.

"Well, I could be wrong—I've only dealt with such victims three times before—but werewolves kill for food, right? And whenever one of their victims has appeared here, the heart or liver has always been missing, usually both. But this man…" he gestured for the filled bucket by the foot end of the slab, "had all his organs present. in fact, I've not found a single bitemark of any kind. So he can't have been killed to be feed upon."

"Mm," I let out. It's starting to sound more and more as if a werewolf didn't do this after all, but then what did?

"And then there's the head again," he continued, turning to it, "Even if a werewolf most certainly has the strength, and ability, to cause that, I don't see why it would. The injury to his stomach is more than enough to kill the man, so to crush his head like that after?"

"The stomach injury came first?" I asked. Though it made sense now that I thought of it: the blood splatter in his home had indicated Andane had been standing up when he received that injury. And the head, he was most likely lifted up afterward for that one.

"Oh, yes," he said, still looking at Andane in thought.

"The head," I repeated to myself in thought.

If the culprit, or beast, is hunting Lietenant's, what's it's motive? A vendetta against the city guards? if so, why go after men who can be replaced, or why not go after every guard it comes across? Why these men in particular?

"What can you tell me about the other bodies?" I asked.

"The other?" he asked as he turned his head for me.

"Mornd Esbog—bit over two weeks ago—and Rubarb Castell—bit over a month?"

"I get bodies, I don't get names," he said.

"The latest two ¨animal attacks,¨ then."

"Oh, yes," he suddenly said with a nod, "I remember them"

"Tell me about the first one—Rubarb."

"Rubarb…" he mumbled as he took of his gloves and tossed them on the slab before walking over to one of the shelves to reach for a large book, "I don't keep names but… an animal attack… a month ago…" he continued as placed the book on a table and flipped the pages. "Ahh."

"Yes?" I said as I walked up to the opposite side of the table.

"Let's see… ¨The body was brought in on—¨"

"Skip the introduction," I interrupted, "tell me of his injuries."

He lifted his eyes from the book ad gave an annoyed look, "Right at it then," he said before returning to read out of the book: "Suspected cause of death and injuries: The victim suffered a crushed ribcage, resulting in a collapse, as well as, puncturing of both lungs. Heart: intact, with surprisingly minor pressure trauma. Spleen: punctured by a single broken rib. Confirmed—post mortem—cause of death: Shock and suffocation due to trauma inflicted on the victim's lungs. Injuries all correspond with suspected bear attack."

"That's it?" I asked as he stopped reading.

"That's it," he said, looking up.

"You don't remember anything odd?"

"Not at all," he said confidently, "They brought in the body, said he had been found outside city walls, attacked by a bear. As you see, the injuries all fit, so I signed it off as such."

"No bite marks? no odd claw mark?" I continued, there had to be something.

"I assure you, this one was as textbook as it gets," he said, "there really was nothing to suspect—I would have brought it up if there was."

"A werewolf couldn't have done that? Or some other beast?" If the same thing is hunting all of us, there has to be something connecting the victims.

"Well… sure it could. But why suspect a werewolf, rare as they are, or some other unlikely beast if the injuries all scream bear? as I said, I would've mentioned it if I suspected something else."

"Hm," I said with a sigh as I leaned back and crossed my arms. "I believe you." Why wouldn't I, he had no reason to lie and, besides, he figured out more from Andane's body than I'd ever manage. "What of Mornd then?"

"Ah!" he let out again as he turned the pages, "I remember him clearly—another ¨animal attack¨ they said. But that one didn't sit well with me either."

"How so?" I asked as he found the page.

"Well, first of all, he was wearing sleepwear when they brought him in," he said, reading through the page as he spoke, "What sane man goes into the woods in his sleepwear?" Sloppy cover-up work. But he clearly didn't know Mornd had been killed in his home as well. "And that man was covered in cuts."

"He was?" The Captain did say Andane had suspected Mornd of being a werewolf attack.

"Here we are," he said, "Four deep cuts, seemingly caused by claw marks, on the underside of both victim's forearms - horizontal: likely defensive wounds. A singular large bruise on the right shoulder caused by blunt trauma or, more likely, hard fall judging by shape of bruise (one edged corner.) Victim's left shoulder shows further claw marks in the shape of a grip as if turned/pulled over. And lastly, most likely cause of death, torn open/severed main artery—neck—and windpipe. Confirmed—post mortem—cause of death: Bloodloss due to severed main artery," he fell silent for a good second and made a grimace before continuing, "Injuries all correspond with suspected animal attack."

"You wrote that?" I asked skeptically for the hubris ending of his report. "Confirmed it as an animal attack?"

"I did," he said disgustingly, "I don't agree with it, but the Lieutenant working that case was quite insistent on it—Lieutenant Marshog," he finished almost with disgust as he closed the book.

I looked over at the slab by reflex of him mentioning his name. So he didn't know who the body belonged to? but, not surprising, considering the state of his face.

"So what do you think?" I asked as I looked back.

"I think a cougar would bite someone's neck, or head even. Not claw it open after turning the man over. It's ridiculous."

"Could a werewolf have done it?"

"Again with the werewolves?" he sighed as he leaned into his chair, "Sure! It's clearly what Marshog though—he asked me the same question."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Again, sure. A werewolf could have done it—more likely than a cougar at least."

"But you don't buy it?" his tone said it all.

"No, same reason as this one," he gestured for Andane, "He hadn't been feed upon. All organs still in place."

"And a werewolf wouldn't kill for the sake of killing?"

"How would I know?" he said, clearly getting annoyed, "I'm no scholar, I only know the two werewolf victims I have dealt with both had organs eaten."

"What do you make of it then?"

Again, he sighed before shaking his head. "I don't know. If a beast did it, it did it for the sake of killing."

"Hm," I let out. It didn't fit, a feral beast on a killing spree would go after anything and everything, it wouldn't make its way into residences to seek out its prey. No, a feral beast wouldn't even be capable of that. ¨Sentient,¨ he had said. That, though, did make more sense. Whatever monster had killed them, it clearly chose its victims. "So if not a beast, what then?" I asked.

He clicked his tongue as he pondered, "Honestly, at first glance that one did look like a werewolf attack, but the more I think of it…"

"Yes?"

"The more I think of it, the more it feels like that one was simply covered up to look like that."

That was a theory I had earlier, but considering what I know now: "Would that be possible?"

"There's plenty of weapons that mimic claws, and with nothing but slash-marks on his arms, shoulder, back, and a cut open throat? Well, it wouldn't take inhuman strength to pull it off. Not like that one," he gestured to Andane's body.

Not like that one, I thought, looking over at the body. Bernard: mauled. Mornd: cut. Andane: crushed head. All their deaths were inconsistent, a different culprit? And what was the motive? If the motive is to simply kill off all the Lieutenants, why was Andane's head crushed after receiving a deadly wound, then? If the culprit is semi-sentient, like a werewolf, it'd fit. But if it's fully-sentient? Then it wouldn't need to go to such lengths. Unless… it was personal? An act of rage? Loss of control? It'd take a lot of anger to crush a man's head after delivering a killing blow.

But one thing's for certain: the claw marks on the floor, the injuries, the strength needed for his head? Andane was most likely killed by a beast.

"Could the same creature have killed these men?"

"Hm?" he let out and gave me a look, "I was wondering why you brought up the other two, you think they're connected?"

"They have to be," I said. Four lieutenants, three bodies? It's not a coincidence. Can't be.

"What makes you think that?" he asked, ominously so.

"That's my job, you worry about yours." The best excuse when one didn't want to get into things, seems the Captain's philosophy's gotten to me more than I cared to admit. In short, its half-assed cover-up work at its finest, "All I'm asking is: could one single creature be behind these men's deaths?"

"Hm," he hummed with a hint of resentment, giving me googly eyes before he answered: "In short, yes. Is it likely, no."

"Why?"

"Because you suspect a werewolf did this," he said plainly, "So what you're asking is: could a werewolf be behind the deaths of these three men? The answer is: yes, the injuries fit all of them, but is a werewolf likely to be behind it: no, because—"

"I get it," I interrupted: no full moon, no missing organs, inside residences, etc.

"Well…" he said, straightening out his shirt as he rose, "I can only tell you the facts of my work and… the obvious speculations. But if you have more questions I'm afraid you're moving out of my area of expertise."

"I understand," I said, twirling my mustache with two fingers as I turned around and leaned my ass on his table, halfway into thought. Two theories:

The same, sentient, creature killed all of these men, or a group of two, or more, did. If it's a group, Rubarb and Andane most likely got killed by the same ¨beast,¨ it fits, and Mornd got killed by someone dressing it up as an ¨animal attack¨ in order to mimic the other.

"You said something about a werewolf not being able to get into the city?" he asked behind me, yet, thoughts running, I raised a finger over my shoulder to silence him.

The apparent goal is that this individual, or group, is hunting city-guard Lieutenants. But then, why? What's the motive? And if that's the case, Andane stood out. His head was crushed in an act of anger, rage, after being delivered a killing blow. Why? What would motivate the culprit to act out in anger? If that even is the case?

"Is there a werewolf in the city?" I heard him ask behind me, still, I ignored it for my thoughts.

What made Andane special? The first victim—Rubarb—was stapled as an animal attack from the beginning, Mornd made no further investigations there. But Mornd, killed in his own home? Andane suspected a werewolf from the get-go, even started asking questions. Did he learn something? The papers? It suddenly struck me, if my original thoughts were right, and the culprit had been waiting for Andane? Could the content of those papers be the reason behind his outburst? The reason he burned them? What if Andane wasn't the one who burned them, but the culprit! It made sense.

"Is there a werewolf in the city?" he repeated, louder this time.

I turned, finally reacting to his question, and looked at him. He seemed a lot more worried now. As if he no longer believed it to sound too far fetched. And if the Coroner had begun doubting his own theory?

"No," I said. But honestly, I wasn't so sure. The only thing I was sure of is that I needed to know what we're on those papers. They're without a doubt the next clue. "Thank you for your help…" I said as I rose and straightened myself up, "But I need to head back to the station."

"No… no problem," he said, slowly and confused as he watched me.

"Don't tell anyone what you've told me," I said as I began walking across the room. Yes, I need those papers. "And if you learn something else, you let me know."

"Hey! Clyfar?" he said loudly after me to stop me in my tracks, and I turned my head, "If there is a werewolf, inside the city, don't you think people should know?"

"If you didn't suspect what you now suspect, would you want to know?"

"I—" he fumbled.

"I thought so," I said as I took up my pace again, "There is no werewolf or any other beast inside the city. And no one is killing off men! Don't tell anyone about this," I said as I left.

"I won't."

* * *

Wet streets below and cloudy sky above as I walked. Felt like a depressive gloom hanging over the city, the kind of rain you can't see, yet everything's wet.

Still, there were people everywhere. People of all races and languages as citizens worked to prepare the city-wide festival while exited tourists watched from the streets. Colored lamps hanging high over the streets and colored carpets laid out for wares and stands.

It all drew attention from many, but for someone like me, who grew up in the city, it was the same yearly event as the last. The same one week every summer. You'd think theft and troublemakers would take a break with free food around every corner, but no, all they saw was distracted travelers eagerly carrying gold and expensive wares. Travelers who wouldn't return until next year. One week of free food meant little when one week of picking pockets could feed you for weeks to come.

I should know: I used to prey on them myself.

"Good day, Lieutenant Werinwr." the receptionist greeted as I entered the station.

"Good day," I responded with a nod as I walked through the room.

A couple of light doors and narrow corridors later, I finally reached my office.

"Someone asked for you," Elara—my secretary—said as I walked past her desk to reach for my door.

"Asked for me?"

"Young guard named… Julian," she said, reading off one of her notes, "Said he worked for you now." She gave me a sideways look at the comment: she knew all my men.

"Julian?"

"He had a bag and—"

"Ah, yes," I said. The young man from yesterday. "I know who he is—is he here?"

"He asked for a free table, I showed him to the meeting room."

"Good," I said as I turned, his timing couldn't have been better, "Actually," I blurted out and stopped to turn back, can't believe I almost forgot: "Could you bring me all the files on—" can't really say ¨on Mornd's death,¨ can I? "Andane's latest case?"

"Andane's?" she asked surprised, "We're working his cases now?"

"Just his latest one," I said. As far as I know, the only ones who know the truth are the ones who were present, me, and the Captain. Best to keep it that way. "Bring them to the meeting room once you have them."

"I'll get right on it," she said, beginning to rise.

I turned and made my way out of the room, only to stop in the doorway, "And I don't have to tell you not to read them, do I? Those files are classified."

"I don't do work I don't get paid for," she said with an obvious smile.

"Good girl."

Down the corridor and to the left, through the door with a blurred window.

"I see you refurnished the place?" I said as I entered the room, noticing the half-asleep boy.

"Wha?— no, I!" he blurted out as he shot his head off the table, blinking to focus as he turned newly awake eyes on me as he fumbled for the armrest.

"No need to rise," I said for his action, throwing a gesture with my hand.

"I just…" he started, but stopped to rub his eyes, "I just needed some tablespace."

"It's fine…" I said as I looked around. The desks had been moved around; four of them pushed together into a single large one in the middle of the room with a layer of burnt paper laid out on it. The room was felt rich with the scent of sot. "Julian, was it?"

"Yes, sir."

"So, what do you have for me?"

"I dug through that fireplace, as you asked," he started, turning for the burnt piles of papers as he spoke, "And I've been sorting through it all morning, threw away most of it but anything that still has white on it is here."

"Let's get too it then," I said, pulling up a chair as I took a seat on the opposite side of Julian, already feeling the tedious work at hand birth boredom. "Any paper scraps with writing on it, to the left. Everything else, to the right."

"You?… you're going to work with me?" he said with surprise in his tired look.

Fair question, I thought as I gave him a look. Usually, I'd put some of my men on a task like this, but considering the secrecy of this case that wasn't really an option, was it? "Yes," I said, "And the sooner we get done, the sooner we get home—I doubt either of us got much sleep last night. So let's get to it."

"Yes, sir," he said with a nod behind that tired, same, tedious tone I was feeling. "Oh, I almost forgot…" he let out and suddenly leaned over his armrest to reach for something on the floor before I had the time to reach for the first scrap of blackened paper, "I also found this."

He straightened back up, holding something wrapped up in a piece of cloth, and placed it on the table before he unfolded it.

"A knife?" I said. Or… more of a dagger really, with an ornamented handle.

"I found it at the crime scene," he said as he unfolded the last piece of cloth, "I was looking under things—furniture—in case a paper or two had survived. And that's when I found it. Under the cupboard by the door."

"The cupboard by the door?" I said as I reached for the dagger. There was dried blood on the tip. Far from enough for it to have stabbed someone, but enough for a… close slash?

"By the door, yes."

"Hm…" The one I had put my jacket on? If Andane had been holding it when attacked, and lost it, only for it to end up under the cupboard? The slash on his stomach? Perhaps it was never intended to kill, but rather, excessive force in order to disarm him? It both fits with the blood splatter and explains how the dagger ended up under the cupboard. "Did you find anything else?" I asked.

"No."

"Still…" I should have looked underneath things. "good job."

Th… Thank you? sir," he said with a sightly embarrassed face.

I gave him a look as I placed the dagger on the table. Odd for someone to get embarrassed at a compliment, but previously working under Andane, I wasn't surprised. I'm sure he simply wasn't used to it."

"Do all officers get knives like that?" he asked as he looked at the dagger.

"No," I said, looking back at the dagger. "Just the uniform and officer's rapier. Actually…" I grabbed the dagger again and looked at the ornamented grip, "I've never seen a dagger like this one. Seems a bit much, even for a rich kid." And the gleam of the metal looked different from steel as well. Wait? No… "Fuck me," I let out for the sudden suspicion rising in my mind.

"Something wrong, sir?" he asked from across the table.

But I didn't answer, not until I'd confirm m suspicion. I drew my rapier and held the dagger with its tip against the table at an angle. With the pommel of my rapier, I hit down on the angeled dagger, one hard strike. The tip bent. "Fuck me," I let out again, and not in a happy way. The tip bent!

"Why… why did you do that?" he asked as he watched closely.

"The tip bent," I said, sheathing my rapier before I held up the dagger for him to see.

"So?" he asked confused.

"Steel chips, it doesn't bend." Still, he only looked to become more confused. "It's silver," I said to make it clearer for him.

"Silver?" he repeated.

I sighed as I tossed the dagger on the table and leaned back in my chair to rub my eyes, fuck me indeed. "Silver…" I began as I looked back at him, "Weapons made of silver are close to useless. They dull too quickly, and bend too easily to be practical," I threw a gesture at the dagger, "however, silver holds many magical properties and is commonly used against unholy, or cursed, creatures."

"Unholy or cursed?" he asked with growing interest, more awake eyes. Sadly, he seemed to feel the opposite of what I did, I only felt that pit of dread in my stomach burrow deeper.

"Yes…" I said at his enthusiasm, rubbing my forehead as I leaned back and stared into my palm, "Such as the undead, ghosts, vampires and… werewolves."

"Why… why would Lieutenant Marshog have a knife like that?" he asked, clearly pondering on the question himself.

I clicked my tongue as I straightened up and leaned on the table, "Fuck me," I let out in discouragement once more: why is it every clue I find points to a werewolf when it simply can't be a werewolf?

"Because—" I said before stopping myself. Wait? could I really tell him? Eh, what the heck, he's already in it this far, and if the reason I asked him to help me was to have someone to toss ideas against, he might as well know.

He looked at me with anticipation as I sighed for breath to continue. "ou can't tell anyone about what we discuss in here, or anything else about this case. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely, sir," he answered with a nod.

"Good," I said before I continued, "Andane suspected that Mornd had been killed by a werewolf. It fit, at the time. There had been a full moon. Mornd's injuries. And he probably learned something that made him believe he himself was in danger, that's most likely the reason he got that dagger."

"Was he right?"

"About being in danger? Obviously. but I'm not so sure about the werewolf anymore."

"A werewolf couldn't have Killed Lieutenant Marshog?"

"Well," I said before I proceeded to tell him everything I knew. The circumstances of Andane's death, Mornd's death, my suspected connection to Rubarb. He listened eagerly, but soon that eagerness turned into confusion, apprehension. He listened until I could tell he had the jitters. Still, he continued to listen as I told him of my visit with the coroner. My theory on more than one culprit. That the burnt papers before us were the real reason Andane died.

"Couldn't?…" he interrupted the numb silence as I had finished, "Couldn't it be a werewolf that changes at will?"

"A werewolf that changes at will?!" I let out, surprised at his thought, "Well that would most certainly explain everything. It'd also be the first time I ever hear of it. No… If only it was that easy. the only werewolves to exist outside a full moon are feral ones, and as I said, a feral one couldn't possibly have gotten in and out of the city unnoticed, least of all to kill off specific men. No, there's a brain behind this… it's planned."

"But how could a werewolf appear in a room and disappear, as you said?"

"The easy answer is, it couldn't. It's just not possibl—" wait… The Captain brought up teleportation, which is as ridiculous as Julian's theory, but now, with the theory of more than one culprit… "A mage," I said out loud, "Or a sorceress?"

Julian gave a questioning look.

"I theorized that someone had been waiting for Andane the night he died."

"Yes?"

"What if," I continued, "a magic-user had been waiting for him. A magic-user who somehow had managed to capture a feral werewolf, spellbind it somehow, and then summoned it in order to murder him? And then he simply undid the summoning for it to return to wherever he had it captured."

"I… don't know much about magic," he said.

"Neither do I, but…" I pondered on the theory, "It fits. It'd explain everything. A magic-user would most certainly have the brains for such a plan."

"Or… maybe he shapeshifted?" he said, "if it's a magic user, couldn't he do that?"

Another theory, maybe the boy has his uses after all. "Perhaps, but…" I pondered. Could a mage do that? It struck me how little I knew of magic, for a Breton. Another downside of growing up on the streets. Any Breton growing up with the right name had to study magic from an early age, but those with the wrong name, not so much. "I'll need to speak to someone," I said. Someone who knows better.

"But why?" He had begun looking at the pieces of paper as he mumbled.

"Yes, why?" I agreed. "We're getting off-topic," I said, "Let's focus on what we do know: Andane figured something out, investigating Mornd, and it is most likely what got him killed." Speaking of which: "Where's Elara?" I asked myself, turning my head for the door.

"Elara?" he asked.

"My secretary," I answered, "I told her to get Andane's files, the ones on Mornd, she should have gotten them by now," I said as I rose, "If what Andane found out is what got him killed, then the next big clue must be in those files."

He threw a look at the door as if he had expected it to open before he looked back at me with an I-don't-know look and shrug of his shoulders.

"I'll go find her," I said, "you get starting on those papers, we've wasted enough time already."

"Yes, sir," he said and got to work as I headed for the door.

* * *

She wasn't by her desk, neither did I see her through the corridors. Could she still be in the filing room?

Sure enough, that's where I found her. Between all the rows of shelves filled with boxes on boxes with paperwork and files.

"Oh," she said upon noticing me enter, "I haven't found them yet."

"Haven't found them yet?" How hard could it be? "Is it your first time searching for files?!"

"No, but—"

"It's not hard, they're stored after district and date," I said, annoyed as I walked up beside her. She usually was a lot more efficient than this. "Let me see."

"I'm in the right spot," she snarked, "They must have been misplaced."

"Hardly," I said, dragging my finger across texts as I read dates and numbers. It's not a complicated system.

"Well, I'm telling you they're not here," she started with that same snarky tone, "It's either that, or I suddenly forgot how to do my job."

I threw her a cynical look over my shoulder, "Did you check his office?" I asked. Now that I thought of it it was, after all, Andane's current case, it'd make no sense for him to file it here until it was closed.

"No," she said bitterly and admittingly.

"Well that's it then," I said reassuringly, turning to leave the room with her following closely behind.

* * *

Andane's secretary wasn't present, not surprising. Still, it didn't feel right walking into a dead man's office without permission. But the case called for it.

"Help me look," said as I walked up to his desk. His desk was clean, well organized, as if on display rather than a working desk. The whole room looked like that. A clean green carpet with chairs placed symmetrically pointing toward the heavy desk. A wide bookcase with evenly placed books, they were even organized after size rather than title or context. I felt it lacked character. Lacked soul.

The only personal trait this office held, was his apparent OCD.

"No files in the bookshelf," she said as I searched the drawers of his desk: nothing but unused pencils, filled ink jars, and empty notebooks. Did he even work here?

"They have to be here," I said, searching the room with my eyes. Where else would he have them? "No… wait," I let out as a thought hit me: a cold growing suspicion bordering on a realization. The maid. She had said Andane was working on something at home. That he didn't want to be disturbed. "No-no-no-no…" I let out as the sudden cold feeling grew stronger. "don't tell me."

"What?" Elara said as I abruptly up a hurry through the room, "What?!" she repeated as I passed her and headed through the door.

"We need to see the receptionist," I said brassily as I rushed down the corridors with her closely behind. The feeling was jarring.

"You!" I said as we approached the receptionist's desk, "I need to see the logs."

"The logs?" she asked, taken aback by my impatient tone, judging by her face.

"Just give it here," I said, reaching as she lifted it off the desk and handed it to me.

"Please don't," I mumbled to myself as I turned the large pages, eyes set intensively on the pages as I searched for his name, "There," I let out, pressing down my finger on his line on the page. The date of his latest visit gave me that sudden breath-stealing feeling of dread: Night of Sundas.

"¨Lieutenant Marshog. Arrived…" I began reading out loud, "…around midnight. Left soon after with two case-boxes.¨" I lifted my head, "That's it?" I asked the receptionist.

"We—" she started, searching for words, "We only keep track of the comings and goings of personal and guests. We don't write down much more, the pages would fill too quickly."

"Elara," I said, turning for her, "Head back to the case-room and check the log-bok, if he withdrew two case-boxes it should be in the log."

"I'm on it," she said and hurried off.

"It says he was here at midnight," I said, turning back for the receptionist, "that's no more than an hour or two before he died, who worked the reception that night? The night of Sundas."

"Wait…" she said shocked, "Marshog's dead?"

"Skrew that…" I couldn't care less about secrecy anymore, the action was done yet it felt as if time was of the essence. "…just find out who worked the nightshift and bring her here, or him."

"I– I'm– I'm not allowed to leav—" she stuttered.

"Then find someone who can! And let me know the second she's here! You two!" I shouted, turning for two nearby guards who seemingly eavesdropped from across the room.

"Sir?" one of them said questioningly.

"Gather any and all guards who are in the building without anything important to do and get them to the case-room. We're gonna read through every single file until we find what's missing!"

Still, I already had the horrible feeling I knew which files he took. I'm right… aren't I?

* * *

Hours… Hours of searching. Reading. And nothing. The files were gone. Well, technically they were right here all along. Two burnt piles in front of my feet. Fuck me.

Well, here it is… the Fuckening. That moment of the day when life decides to bend you over and go to town simply because it can. And all you can do is to smile and wave at all the people looking.

"You can't smoke in here."

I recognized that bitter voice: the Captain. Just what I needed. Another incompetent malpractice bureaucrat. Another responsibility neglecting paper-pusher. Another high-nosed spoonfed hypocrite… Another fucking thorn in my side. I used to beat people like him up for looking down on us when I was a kid. Spoiled brats all of them.

"The room already reeks of burnt paper," I muttered as I kept staring into the ceiling from my seat, feet on the table, "What difference is a little tobacco gonna make?"

I ignored him as I heard him make a grumbling sound before he walked into the room to close the door behind him.

"You've caused quite the commotion," he said with a strict heavy tone, nothing but a loose slap on one's wrist.

But sure, I'm at fault. Ain't that rich.

"Half the station knows Andane's dead," he continued, "and now they're asking about Mornd, and Rubarb. So far, I've managed to hush it down—got them in on the coverup—but you know how rumors work. It'll only be a matter of time before word gets out of the station."

Out of the station? Fuck me, it's the same old story: hush down, coverup, rumors. Three of his men are dead, killed off by the Divines know what. And I'm next, yet that's his biggest worry. Rumors.

"This is straight-up insubordination, Clyfar. I told you to keep things on the down-low, and then you go over my head and—"

"You should have read the damn reports, Captain," I muttered through the chewing on my pipe to interrupt. I was pissed at the man and I was tired of pretending I wasn't.

"The reports?" he asked, his tone suddenly turning into that of a confused question.

"You know the papers I found in the fireplace?" I said as I took my feet off the table and sat up, flinging my pipe on the table before I placed my head into my hand and leaned on the armrest, "The burnt ones?" He only looked confused at me. "It was the case files on Mornd and Rubarb."

"The case files?" he asked. I couldn't tell if he feigned ignorance or honestly didn't know.

"That's why he was wet…" I said, "because he came here. He came here, an hour or two before he died to get those files. And this is it," I said, throwing a beaten gesture at the burnt piles on the table with my free hand, "he burned them."

"Burned them? Why would he—"

"Because he figured something out!" I interrupted, feeling the anger grow at his blindness as I stood up. "It's obvious, isn't it?! He figured something out, and it got him killed. Because whoever is behind this is clearly covering up his own tracks! And had you taken your damn time reading those damn files during his investigation, we'd know what!" Again, I couldn't tell if his face was that of insult or surprise, did he even realize his screwup?!

"So you have nothing?" he asked, too calmly for my taste.

"I. Have. Noth!—"

"Well…" Julian pitted in from the corner.

We both turned our heads as he sat speculate in his corner seat. I had entirely forgotten he was in the room, and the Captain clearly hadn't noticed him upon entering.

"Well," he continued with a nervous face, "at least we now the cases are connected."

"So you do have something?" the Captain asked as he turned back for me.

"No," I said, looking down at the papers, "but he's right." I'm surprised the boy had drawn the right conclusion. "Andane wouldn't have burnt Mornd's case files, as well as Rubarb's, weren't they connected. Whoever forced him to get the files wanted them both gone."

"But then you do have something," he said. He was beginning to sound repetitive.

"And how the fuck does that help me?" I said, lifting my head from the papers to look at the man, "You wanna know what I have?! I have three dead bodies and nothing but a theory of a shapeshifting mage! A mage who summons feral werewolves! Or a fucking werewolf capable of changing at will!" I almost punched the air toward Julian at the last statement, "Each theory as ludicrous as the next, straight out of fairytales! I have a bloody fucking knife made out of fucking silver and two fucking piles of sot!"

"Get a hold of yourself, Lieutenant," he said sharply between my words.

"And my only witness is a traumatized maid with memory loss and a neighbor who heard thunder! Thunder! In a fucking storm! Helps me a fucking lot, don't you think! Now that's what I got! No wait, there's more, look!" I reached for the first blackened piece of paper my frustrated hand could grip, "Here! ¨Van,¨ I'm not even sure that's an ¨n,¨ it's too burnt to tell! not to mention the rest of the fucking sentence! And here," I threw the piece aside as I reached for the next one, " Oh look, here's the ending of one! ¨arm.¨ Arm? Well, that's your culprit right there! A fucking arm did it! Let's start arresting those!"

"I don't appreciate that foul language of yours," he started with a strict look, "It might pass with the guards, but I expect more professional language from my Lieu—"

"Well, I never grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth," I spat, "My tongue never took on the hue!"

"That's enough!" he flared up, "I'm tired of having the same arguments with you!"

"Oh, fuck me," I said as I fell back in my chair, again leaning back to watch the ceiling as I clenched my forehead with my hand.

"Well," he said after a brief silence, "I at least have some good news."

"And what's that?"

"I managed to rush the paperwork, so I may be able to make your promotion official sooner than expected."

That's the good news? Rushed paperwork? "I don't give a rat's ass about that," I said, "That title comes with a death sentence. Actually, no. Andane was killed because he investigated Mornd, and Mornd, most likely, because he investigated Rubarb. And now I'm the one investigating Andane. And I… have nothing. Second in command or not, I'm a dead man… You should have read those damn files," I sighed at the ceiling.

"I get it," he said impatiently, "I get you're angry, and you have the right to be." Maybe he did see he's the one at mistake after all. Good, he should. "But that doesn't mean we can forego protocol. You may have plenty on your plate right now, but so do I and everyone else. It's how things work around here."

I could only shake my head. I still couldn't see why a promotion had to take priority, simply because the law said so, when lives were at stake. No, I could: it's all coated in politics.

There was a knock on the door and I tilted my head to see.

"Come in!" the Captain said. "Who are you?" he asked as a young woman nervously entered.

"You… asked for me?" she said. I gave her a confused look before she continued, "I worked the night shift."

"Ah" I let out and sat up straight, taking a breath to calm myself. Still, it felt hopeless. "I was wondering if you remember anything about the night when Andane– Lieutenant Marshog was here? Last Sundas night."

"I do," she said, looking confused around the room at the Captain and Julian.

"Anything about him grabbed your attention? Did he act strange in any way?"

"Strange?" she asked. But she clearly began thinking of something as her eyes took on the look of thought, "Well," she started awkwardly, "I… don't know if it helps, but he didn't hit on me."

"He didn't hit on you?" the Captain asked confused.

"He always hits on me, or, all of us really." She seemed slightly embarrassed, though it was understandable.

"So he was acting strange?" I asked, "or at least out of the ordinary."

"I… I guess."

"Did he seem rushed? In a hurry?"

"No, not at all."

"Walk me through his visit."

"Well," she started, "he entered around midnight, and I got a bit annoyed when I greeted him and saw who it was because I thought he'd hit on me, as always. But he didn't."

"Did he greet you back?"

"He did. But he just walked through the reception like any other. And shortly after, he returned with some files, said he wanted to work on them at home, and left."

"And he didn't seem rushed?"

"Not at all. He was…" she searched for words, "surprisingly normal?"

"Hm," I let out. ¨Surprisingly¨ normal. Then it wasn't normal, was it? "And he didn't say anything else?"

"No."

"Hm…" Well, this wasn't helpful, I had at least expected him to be in a rush. Still… "Thank you," I said, "if you remember anything else come let me know."

"I will," she said with a nod.

"Good. You may leave."

She gave a curtsey before she turned and left.

"So?" the Captain asked as he closed the door behind her.

"I don't know," I said with a sigh. "Clearly he didn't act his usual self, but neither did he seem to be in a rush." Maybe that's some useful information after all? If he didn't hurry?... "Here's what I'm thinking," I leaned on the table and rubbed my eyes before brushing my fingers through my hair: didn't realize how tired I was. How many hours of sleep had I gotten before Julain awoke me last night? Ah, hell. "I think someone was at his place that night. There were no signs of forced entry, so perhaps even someone he knew. That, someone, had him come down here to get the files, that's why he was wet but the couch was dry."

"The couch?" he asked.

"Yes, because whoever he had visiting remained at his place, the culprit never stepped out in the storm. I was thinking he might have held the maid hostage, as leverage. But, traumatized or not, the maid would surely have remembered that, which only strengthens the idea that they knew each other, the culprit didn't need leverage to convince Andane to get the files. Which, again, is strengthened by the fact that Andane didn't seem in a hurry while here. Still, he didn't have time to stay and flirt."

"But…" the Captain said, "no man could have killed Andane."

"No," I said, "the Coroner confirmed that. It'd take unnatural strength to crush his head, and the claw marks indicated hands far larger than those of a human. No… at the moment, the theory of a beast summoning mage makes the most sense."

"A beast summoning mage?" he mumbled.

"It would explain how the beast could appear and disappear seemingly out of nowhere," I said, "It also explains why Andane suspected a werewolf—it might just be. But even so, that mage is most likely the brain behind it all. For a feral werewolf to… well, that's simply impossible."

"A beast summoning mage," he mumbled, again, in thought, "But why would a mage go after my lieutenants?"

"That's… I actually don't think that's the case anymore," I said, "at least not intentionally."

"How so?"

"Well…" I started, thinking it over, "With the burnt files, it looks more like the mage is covering up his tracks for something. It might be that Rubarb was onto something, I don't know what, and got killed for it. Mornd started investigating him, and, in turn, learned something that got him killed. And then, Andane repeated the pattern. The mage wasn't after them because they were lieutenants, he went after them because they learned too much."

"That," he said, scratching his chin, "actually makes sense."

"Assuming it is a mage, might even be more than one."

"A group?" he asked with a sudden look, "You're saying there's a conspiracy out there?"

"I didn't say that, and I have no proof of anything," I said, rubbing my eyes once again, "It's all just speculations. Fantasy and fiction. I have nothing."

"But," Julain said from his corner, "If we don't know anything, doesn't that mean we're safe? Maybe we should just—"

"No," the Captain interrupted, "You don't get away with killing city guards, least of all district lieutenants…"

I looked up at him as he spoke. So now he cares about lives? That's a fresh breath of air.

"…And if there is a conspiracy out there, it might threaten the city as a whole. Who knows what they're after, they might even be out for the Duke, to sway the political leadership of the city. The entire country!"

The political lead?… Well, that breath was short-lived.

"No," he continued as he turned for me, "You'll continue the case. Find out what's going on. You hear that."

"Sure," I said, falling in silence.

"So…" Julain said after a while, "What now?"

I looked up at him with a sigh, "Well… Andane got murdered because of what he found while investigating Mornd. Because of what was in these files." Again, I threw a tired gesture at the papers on the table. "So now we need to figure out what that was—do the investigation he did. Walk… in his footsteps, and so on."

"Hm," the Captain let out, "You should speak to Amenette then."

"That's what I was thinking," I said.

"Who's Amenette?" Julian asked.

"Mornd's wife," I said. But wait? "Weren't you there, Captain?" I asked, lifting my head.

"Briefly," he said, returning my look, "But I only spoke with Andane, looked over Mornd. Told the guards not to spread rumors, my job…" Of course, the whole coverup and what-not. "Andane must have spoken with her, it should be in the—" he fell silent.

I gave him a tired look to see if he wanted to finish that sentence or not. But he only bit shut.

"In the files," I finished sharply, a heavy breath as I felt the anger return: he should have read the damn files.

"I was there," Julian said, drawing my attention.

"And?" I asked.

"I…" he started innocently, "I only stood on the outside, keeping watch by the door."

"And how does that help?" I asked annoyed: if he had seen something he better spill it.

Well…" he said, searching memories, "There… there was a storm that night as well?"

"A storm?" I said, "Oh, by the Divines!" I let out, shooting back in my chair for the sarcastic ¨revelation¨ of it all, "It's been raining half summer! But sure! There, Captain, Julian—named after Julianos—figured it out. The fucking storm did it, the storm and…" I brushed through the burned papers on the table until I found it, "The storm and a fucking arm!" I shouted as I threw the burnt piece at the twitching boy before burying my face in my palms. "So…" I said, after a breather, and lifted my face toward the clearly displeased Captain "guess we're off to see Mornd's wife then."

He sighed before he spoke, "Don't you think it's a bit late to go knocking on a widow's door?"

"Late?" I said. No windows in here, is it really that late?

"It's late," he confirmed, "The only reason I'm still here is because I rushed your paperwork."

"Late," I repeated in thought as it hit me; the supper. Fuck me. "Well, guess that'll have to wait until tomorrow then," I said and looked over at the nervous-looking Julian. I wonder if I look as tired as him? I probably look worse: I'm old. "Go home, Julian," I said, "Get some sleep and meet me here tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," he said and quickly rose to head off.

"Well, night then, Captain," I said, reaching for my pipe as Julian had left, "I have a supper I'm late to."

* * *

"You're late," she shouted from the kitchen as I walked through the door.

"I know, I know," I answered as I brushed rain off my coat and placed it on the hanger, hat on top.

"We already ate, since you didn't show up in time…" she said as I made my way through the hallway and entered the candlelit dining room. Varg was sitting by the fireplace with his side toward the room, his right side—the non-scar side—seemingly deeply immersed in a book as he didn't notice me enter: Hm, I never took him for a reader. "But it's your day, so we saved you some. It's cold, of course." She was already placing a plate on the table together with some left-over food.

My day? No, I'm too tired to laugh.

"I'm sorry…" I said as I made my way and took a seat by the table, "I got… overwhelmed at work and… well, it's been a long day and I lost track of time."

"Ah-ah-ah," she said. I knew that tone. "You know my rule: no work-talk in this house," she said as she prepared a plate for me.

"I know. Thank you" I said as she handed me the plate. Grilled trout, mashed potatoes, and a side of vegetables and garlic-buttered bread. When was the last time I ate today? Nothing more than some bread and an apple when I went by my apartment to dress for work. "This… smells really good," I said.

"It's cold," she repeated as she sat down in front of me, resting her chin in her hands as she watched me.

"Still… I'm starving," I said, reaching for cutlery to eat.

"Varg," she said, looking over at him as I began to eat, "there's enough left if you want some more."

"No…" he mumbled without taking his eyes off the book, "I'm… trying to…" he faded off.

"Well you did eat a lot—he always eats a lot," she said as she turned back to me.

I'm not surprised. Body like that, I'm sure he eats for two.

"I've been teaching him to read," she continued, turning for me with an eager look.

"Wait," I said, turning to Varg, "You can't read?"

"Uh…" he let out as he lifted his head and looked at me with a dumbstruck expression, "I… eh… uh."

"Huh," I let out, "Well that makes more sense," I said as I turned back to my plate.

"Clyfar!" she said and reached over the table to lightly slap my upper arm, "Be nice."

"I– Sorry?" I chuckled, "I just found it funny is all." It felt nice for a change, still, she gave me that look. A click of my tongue, "Varg, you're doing good," I said. I could almost hear the smile forming on his face.

"So," she started as I returned to eating, "how was your day?"

"How was my day?" I repeated as I looked up at her, "How can I talk about my day if I can't talk about work?"

"Surely there must be something you can talk about?"

"Well, then," I said, returning to my meal. "Got in an argument with the Captain today?"

"Again?" she asked, not surprised.

"You know how he is," I said, feeling the thoughts fuel my temper once again, "All politics, bureaucracy, and paperwork. He cares more about keeping up image and pleasing the duke, than actually helping the people. Always covering things up rather than fixing them, all in the name of ¨making us look good.¨"

"Don't you think it's important for the city-guards to look good to the people?"

"Sure," I said sharply, "But maybe we should look good by actually doing our jobs rather than by covering up our failures. Or maybe we should look good by helping the common man—people like us—rather than sniffing some noble kid's ass in order to gain favor with his dad."

"I'm sure it's not that bad," she said.

"Not that–" I almost spat, "Do you have any idea how many complaints we turn down each day because the Captain thinks it isn't important enough? Or cases that– Just last week, a street kid showed up—young kid—crying because his father never came home. So I put some men on the job, told them to search the streets, ask around, the usual. You know what I found out?"

She only looked at me. Listening as she slightly shook her head.

"Well, turns out that the father had ¨insulted nobility.¨ Some spoiled brats believing themselves over us commoners had demanded the father to find another seat at the tavern because they didn't want him sitting that close! The father refused, of course, and a brawl started. Whose side do you think the guards took?"

"I know how it is," she said with a sigh.

"Of course you do! So the father goes to jail to sleep it off. Should have ended there—it didn't. Turns out, one of those noble brats bribed two city-guards to go into his cell and ¨teach him a lesson¨ as he slept. He died."

"That's horrible," she said.

"Yes! But neither is it anything new. Had those two men been mine, I'd thrown them from the city walls. But they weren't, they were Mornd's men, who already was d– out of town back then, so the Captain had to deal with it himself. You know how that turned out?"

"I'm sure I can guess," she said, clearly displeased but still not surprised.

"Right. Nothing but a slap on the wrists and a two-week suspension to the guards. But still, bribing city-guards is no joke, so, of course, he had no choice but to investigate that kid. Well, as it turns out, the kid's father was a bit more important than he ought to be. So the Captain apologized… Apologized! for investigating his son. And that's that with that!"

"Oh, that's how it always has been," she said, "That won't change."

"Well, it shouldn't be," I said, "Sure as hell isn't why I became a guard. People shouldn't get away with murder simply because they have the ability to get you fired. Actually, no one outside the guard force should have the right to get you fired. It's ridiculous."

It's a wonder I haven't been fired yet, or actually: no. I'm not important enough to fire. And I don't deal with important enough people, the Captain saw to that by signing me to the market-district. But… I have a feeling that might change with this case.

"Oh, wait!" she suddenly let out and stood up, "I totally forgot, we never open that bottle of wine."

Thank the Divines, I thought as I continued eating, I could really use a drink after today.

"I'll put it to heat right away," she said as she walked to the kitchen, took out a pot, and reached for the bottle still in its basket. "Varg?" she said as she unbottled the wine and poured it into the pot.

"Hm?" he let out from behind my back.

"Since you're by the fire, could you keep an eye on the pot?"

"Sure," he said as she added a cinnamon stick, some nutmeg, and a sliced orange or two into the mix.

"Here," she said as she walked across the room and hung the pot above the fire, "It's done the moment it begins smoking. Just keep an eye on it so it doesn't start boiling."

"Got it," he said happily.

So," she said as she returned to the table and took her seat.

"So?" I said, looking at her, but she only smiled with that smile she usually has when something's on her mind. "So…" I said again, knowing that look, "how was your day then?"

"Oh, the usual," she said, "poking in the garden and… cleaning around the house. Did some reading for Varg and.. well… you don't really get out anymore when you reach my age. You'll see."

"Hm," I let out with a corner-smile, "you're not so old that you can't leave the house."

"It's not that I can't leave the house…" she said, looking off, "it just that there's really nothing out there for me anymore. I've seen the city a thousand times over. And all my old friends are dead or gone, so I can't really go visit anyone, can I," she said and looked back at me.

Sad but true, I thought as I looked at her. Most people growing up as we did—on the streets—died before they reached their 40s. Or simply left in search of a better life out on the country-side. She was lucky to have reached her 60s. No, she wasn't lucky… she had me. "Yeah" I let out as I looked down into the plate. It made sense why she liked Varg's company so much: she was lonely. And having him around, hah! she probably felt like raising a child again… teaching him to read.

I hate moments like these. Those moments when you know you should say something to make things better, and at the same time, you know there's absolutely nothing you can say to change things.

"The wine's done," Varg said loudly before he rose to take it off the fire.

"I'll get some glasses," she said as she, too, rose to head for the kitchen area.

"Thank you for the meal," I said as I pushed the empty plate aside and leaned back in the chair, reaching for my chest pocket to take out my pipe and tobacco pouch.

"You want a glass, Varg?" she asked from the kitchen.

"What Nord would say no to a strong drink?" he laughed as he placed the pot on the table.

"Well here you go then," she said, smiling, as she approached and placed two wine glasses on the table.

"You're not having a glass?" I asked for the two glasses as I poked tobacco into my pipe.

"No," she said with a smile, "It's more than late so I'm heading for bed. I just wanted to see you."

And there it is, that embarrassing feeling she so easily summons. Making me feel bad for not visiting as often as I should.

"But you two have fun," she said, "And no smoking inside!"

"I know," I said, taking the unlit pipe to my mouth, holding it in place with my maulers. "Well, Varg, you better bring the whole pot," I said as I grabbed the two glasses in one hand and rose.

"Night then, boys," she said as we reached the stairs in the hallway.

"Night," the both of us said in unison as I turned left for the back-door. I grabbed the storm lantern hanging on the wall and lit it with a match.

* * *

The humid summer air was chilly as we walked out into the backyard; a fenced off wooden terrace along the back wall of the house overseeing the small garden and a shed. Another white fence along the edge of the small property. Too dark to tell, but there were rows of buildings and houses past the shed—in front of us—and similar backyards stretching to the left and right.

This might be one of the cheaper places, but the residential district's still more than a decent place to live.

"Grab a seat," I said as I headed for the two outdoor chairs with a small table between them.

"Gladly," Varg said and the floorboards creaked as he walked past me to take the furthermost chair.

I never thought about it, but he always did that: chose to sit with his right side facing people. Perhaps he didn't like it, having the burnt on his face and head show.

He put the steaming pot on the table and took his seat as I, too, placed the lantern on the table and took mine.

"It stopped raining," he said out loud as I lit my pipe with another match.

"Still cloudy though... " I said and leaned back in my chair as I took my first few puffs of calming relaxation, "…no stars."

"Hm," he let out in agreement as he looked up at the dark sky.

I took another puff and turned my head to face the man as he poured up the two glasses. Even when sitting down, his size was impressive: like sitting next to a boulder. Well, perhaps not a boulder. Wide shoulders and a strong chest, sure, but his waist was more slender than the typical Nord brute.

"We never really talked, did we," I said as I watched him finish pouring.

"Huh?" he let out and looked up at me, still holding the pot.

"Well," I said, turning to look forward, "I guess that's more my fault. I don't visit my mother as often as I should… as often as I used to."

I hated to admit it to myself, but she used to be my everything. Still is. She raised me by herself, and all that, and we've lived together most of my life.

It did make me feel bad every once in a while.

"I think you're visiting enough," he said warmly as he pushed the filled glass toward me over the table.

"Thank you…" I said for the glass, "…but I don't know about that." The smell of the wine was rich, spicy, and good as I took a sip. It was soothingly warm: a touch of sour and bitter on my tongue, but spicy and just as rich in taste as it was in aromas. And it had that warm aftereffect that stayed in one's stomach for a while before it disappeared in order to remind you that you needed another taste.

"Mhmm!" he suddenly let out, "I like this! It's not mead but… I like it."

I looked over as he held his glass in front of him, ogling its content.

"Never had mulled wine before?"

"No," he said joyfully, still looking at his glass, "But we make spiced wine from red berries, they're spicy, but not like this. They're also sweet. This isn't sweet."

"I'm glad you like it," I said as I faced forward for another puff of my pipe. The tobacco took on its glow, warming my face, as I inhaled. "They only sell it during the festival, so it's hard to come by. It's more of a traditional wine."

"Hm," he gruffed impressed again.

I cleaned my throat and stared into the dark. ¨I think you're visiting enough,¨ he had said. "How long ago was it you showed up here, Varg?" I asked, "A month? Two?"

"I…" he started, but fell silent as he stared off into the sky and seemed to try and figure it out, "something like that," he said and turned for me with a questioning look.

"Well," I started, rubbing my tired eyes, "I used to visit my mother every day. For fucks sake I lived with her well into my 30s, so you don't know."

He looked at me dumbfoundedly: that face of his only taking on more of a question.

"Ever since I became a lieutenant, I got so swamped with work and… responsibilities, that now I'm lucky if I manage to see her once a month." I took another deep sip from the glass and looked over at him, "So you might think that's ¨visiting enough,¨ but to us, it's not." I turned forward and took another warming sip, "No," I said, "I'm not visiting enough. And as pathetic as it sounds, she's the only woman in my life. I should visit her more."

"I don't think that's pathetic," he said slowly.

"Hah!" I let out. Maybe I should have married some young broad—I met plenty of those in my prime—had a child and lived as a regular city guard all my life. Rather than focusing on climbing that fucking ladder of ¨success,¨ and for what?

"She speaks about you all the time," he continued, "So you must be a good son."

And what the hell does he know?

"She said you bought her this house," he still spoke.

"Hm?" I let out, turning my head. "I did," I said, giving the painted planks behind my head a knock as I turned back forward. "Saved up for it most of my life—ever since I started working really. And I still give her most of my paycheck, the only reason I can afford my own place is that, well, because lieutenants are required to live in their own districts, so tax-payers pay our rent… Another reason why the city-guards should work for the people, and not to please the nobility… For fucks sake, the nobility grabs all the taxes either way."

"Nothing bad about looking after your mom," he said. Sounded like an attempt to comfort, but none the less, I agreed.

"Hm," I huffed and emptied my glass before I put it on the table, gesturing for Varg to refill it. "Fuck me," I said to myself as he poured, "You're not wrong but– We… we used to live in this… this run-down building down by the docks together with two other families. We didn't even have a door, just a… a torn fucking carped hanging over the opening." he looked at me as I took the glass and leaned back in my chair. "We had to sleep in hammocks, for fucks sake. Because if we slept on the floor the rats would come and chew on us as we fell asleep."

"That doesn't sound like fun," he said quietly.

"Ha, haha," I laughed out loud before taking another sip and yet another puff to relax. "It wasn't," I said as I watched the white smoke rose in the light of the storm lantern. "My mother worked as a maid back then, all day, every day. Just to feed us. So I was raised by the streets: brawling with other kids, picking pockets. I… stole a lot back then. Mostly food or things you could buy food with. All of that, and still, she always found time to read me nighttime stories when I was a kid."

"Yeah…" he said, looking straight forward, "she's a good woman."

Again, I chuckled to myself as I took another sip. That's right, she's reading to him now. Ain't I a sore—no wonder she likes him. Perhaps she's reminded of the old times. Perhaps she feels like she's been given a purpose again, taking care of him. Wait? Am I jealous? Am I being replaced? Nooo… I'm waaay too old to think like that. Must be the wine. No, as long as she's happy, my thoughts on it don't matter.

"Well," I said, taking another puff before I continued, "I suppose I do owe a ¨thank you.¨"

"Thank me?" he said, quickly looking at me with those big dark confused eyes of his.

"For helping my mother," I said, looking forward, "she told me you fixed the fence, and… plenty of other things. Things I never got around to do—even though I promised I would. She's really taken a liking to you, you know, in fact, ever since you showed up it's as if she's been will bent on keeping you."

"Naah," he laughed, dismissively waving a large hand to brush away my comment, as he usually does. "I'm the grateful one," he laughed, "If all I have to do is fix fences and repair old furniture for a bed to sleep in, I'm set. besides…" he looked forward again as his voice turned softer, "she reminds me of my own mom."

"Yeah?" I let out and took another sip of the wine. One part of me didn't really like it, but what the hell, "I'm still thankful for it," I said. But he only gave me a confused smile, or, not-understanding look. Aren't Nords used to gratitude? "I'm a Breton," I said, "You Nords might not be used to all our please-and-thank-yous, but we're raised to appreciate kindness when we see it… some of us at least. So, thank you."

"Huh," he let out with a deep chuckle, "Well, treat me like a Breton, and I'll treat you like a Nord—buy me a round at the tavern and we'll call it even!" he, again, laughed.

"Hm," I huffed, and took another puff of my pipe as I looked forward into the dark, "I might just do that." Another sip of going-cold wine. Reminds him of his own mom? "You're from Skyrim right?"

"Born and raised," he said, filling up his glass.

"I guess it's been a while since you last saw your parents then?"

"Hm…" he gruffed and took a sip as he stared off into the distance, "More than a while. They're dead."

"Dead?" I blurted out as I looked at him, I didn't expect that.

"There was a fire," he said with a darkened tone.

"I'm…" another one of those uncomfortable moments when you know there's nothing you can say to make things better. Still, one has to try: "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It's more than a lifetime ago," he said reassuringly, scratching his stubble before he lifted his glass to his lips.

That long? A fire? I thought as I looked at him: staring ahead into the dark. That would explain the burn on his face. Did he blame himself? hm… "Skyrim, eh?" I mumbled as I leaned back and took the pipe to my lips again, searching for a way to change the subject, "I hear there's plenty of shit going on there. The civil war's only getting worse…" I never cared much for outside-politics, but some things were impossible not to hear: Ulfric Stormcloak against the Empire, those kinds of rumors goes around. "Is it true the leader of the Stormcloak's has dragons on his side?" I asked and turned my head toward him.

He was drinking as he reacted, swallowing loudly as he took the glass from his lips and turned to look at me with big eyes. "He… didn't while I served?" he said surprised.

"While you served?" I repeated surprised..

I had assumed he had been a warrior of sorts, before, considering his build. Perhaps hired muscle. But a former soldier? The man lacked every piece of demeanor a former soldier would have.

"Eh! On the Imperial side!" he quickly excused, suddenly waving his hand in defense with that big o-look on his face.

"You served in the civil war?" I asked stunned. But honestly, it didn't sound too far fetched considering he was from Skyrim, but at the same time, it did.

"I… Only for a year or two," he said, still in defense.

"Huh," I let out, leaning back or another puff. Imperial or Stormcloaks, I didn't care. Out of our country. Just a new piece of information I hadn't expected. "huh," I let out again as the thought sunk in.

"I got called in when it started," he continued, surprisingly nervously, "and I–"

"I don't care," I said, "We all have our problems."

I could hear him breathe for a moment before he, too, leaned back and took a deep gulp of his glass before leaning back against the table to fill his glass.

"Here," I said as I swept my glass and placed it on the table for another refill and leaned forward to tap the ash out of my pipe against the bottom of my shoe. Again I reached for my chest pocket and took out the tobacco pouch to refill my pipe as he filled the glasses and the thought hit me: "Wait," I said, "You got called in when it started?"

"Aye," he said as he put down the pot.

"Fuck me," I let out as I poked another round of tobacco into my pipe, "You must have been young. Twenty? Early twenties?"

"Late," he said as he took a deep sip.

"Late?" I said as I looked over at him. The civil war in Skyrim started… "You don't look to be in your forties?" I said. Mid-thirties, sure. But around my age?

"Meh," he let out with a laugh as he, again, dismissively waved that large hand of his, "I skipped a few years!" he continued to laugh.

"Skipped a few years?" I chuckled, almost laughed, as I lit the match-stick and brought it to my pipe, puffing through to again give it life. "You're a funny man, Varg."

"Hm?" he let out, turning toward me, "I'm… sure I am?" he continued with that dumb look he usually had, "people laugh around me."

"I'm sure they do," I chuckled in humor as I puffed on my pipe and drank from my glass once more, "What made you leave? You a deserter?"

"What? No," he said, looking up with yet another surprised look, "No, I…" he looked down into his glass as he swirled the wine, "It's more like they… let me go."

"Let you go?" I asked.

"Well, I…" he started hesitantly as he leaned back in his chair, "Toward the end, I didn't really get along much with the leadership. And they didn't get along with me."

"I'll drink to that," I said, raising my glass, "If there's one thing I get, it's not getting along with the leadership. Cheers."

"Cheers."

"Mm! Mm…" I started, wiping some wine from the corner of my mouth with my sleeve, "I can't believe I never asked: what brought you here? To Wayrest?"

"Why? I once said: If I ever leave Skyrim, I'll go to High Rock for the food alone, so I came for the festival, of course!" he turned for me with a wide smile and big eyes, placing both arms on the table between us, "Is it true what they say, that all the food is free during the festival?"

"Yep," I said, turning my eyes to look into the dark once more. Another sip of wine for the ridiculous irony behind my upcoming sentences, "No food-tax for a month, enough food for a week-long city-wide feast. And still, there are people starving the rest of the year."

"Starving?" he asked, "but… if there's so much food—"

"Because most of it goes to taxes," I interrupted, "To feed nobility and their staff, guards, and so on. And as much as they get, even more of it is exported to feed armies abroad." I shook my head and took a sip of wine, "High Rock is part of the Empire, and we also have some of the most fertile lands in Tamriel, so it goes without saying that we alone feed most of the Empire's armies. Speaking of the civil war—you have no idea how much food we send out to Skyrim at the moment."

"So…" he said ponderingly, "there isn't much food?"

"You see…" I started, turning to face him with annoyance for the subject, "this is how the Nobility works: They'd rather kiss the asses of even higher nobility in order to gain their favor than work to see their own lands flourish. They rather send food, weapons, and gifts to the Emperor's armies to be noticed than make sure their own people have what they need to live good, decent, lives. All they care about are themselves, and as long as their lands are breathing enough to stay alive they don't care how foul that air is. As long as the people are healthy enough to work their fields, mines, and feed their armies, they don't care if they starve or complain. And if those complaints ever turn into actions, well… the city-guards will handle it before they even start."

"I… don't understand," he said with that dumb look of his.

"Of course you don't," I said, leaning back, "Let me put it like this then: The festival only exist to fool the people into believing they have good lives, while in truth, it only shows how good a life they could have if there were no wars, or taxes, or nobility at all. It's nothing but a city-wide bribe designed to make the people work hard as they look forward to next year's festival."

"But? Aren't the nobles sacrificing their food for the people? The ¨no food-tax.¨"

"Ha!" I let out, "The festival doesn't affect their lives, they don't have any less food for it. As I said, all the food is free, so all the nobles have to do is send one of their servants to get whatever food they wish to eat. They don't eat any less for it. And sure, High Rock doesn't export any food to armies for this month, but they more than make up for it in coin for all the tourism it brings: border-taxes, stand-taxes, sales-taxes, and so on. So instead of a shipment of food, the Emperor and whatever armies there are, gets a fat shipment of gold instead. No, the nobility doesn't lose out the slightest for the one month lift on food-taxes."

"I… never saw it that way," he said, still looking confused. I couldn't tell if he got the full picture, but I doubted it.

"Well, few do," I said, emptying my glass. "The whole concept is built on manipulating the people into slaves without them realizing it. To leave them with enough not to realize, yet not enough to fully live—just talking about it makes me mad."

"But people don't complain?"

"Of course not," I said bitterly, "because if they do, they're quickly silenced by the city-guards. And besides, most of the people simply settled with the way things are because they think it's good enough, or because it's the way it's always been. They're satisfied with what little they have because they've been fooled into thinking it's enough, and they've never gotten to taste having anything more. Can't tell if you're drinking bad wine if you've never tasted anything better."

"Speaking of wine, there's enough for one more," he said in a lighter tone.

"Huh?" I looked over at him. He had poured up his glass and was holding the pot for me. "Ah-sure," I said, placing my empty glass on the table, "why let it go to waste."

"Last of the wine, we should cheer for something," he said with a big smile as he handed me my half-filled glass.

"Sure," I said as I took my glass, "anything in mind?"

"To the next Captain!" he laughed loudly, lifting his glass high.

"Ha!" I laughed out loud for the irony. The man has a sense of humor, naive as it may be, "I'll be dead before that happens!"

"Dead?" he said, suddenly not holding his glass so high anymore as he looked at me with big eyes.

"No, I…" I started, couldn't really tell him could I, for the same reason I couldn't tell my mother. "Poor choice of a joke," I saved, taking a sip of my wine. "Nonetheless. I'll never be made captain."

"I don't understand," he said with that big simple look on his face. "Aren't you the second-in-command now? Doesn't that mean you're the next captain?"

"Ha, no…" How to explain this? "I don't think you know how it works. The only reason I was made second-in-Command in the first place is, well…" fuck it, "because I'm the only lieutenant left. And the Captain must have a second-in-command—it's the law—but as soon as this case is over he'll begin searching for new lieutenants to fill in the spots, and I'll be replaced before I know it."

"Why?" he asked, Still seemingly confused. It just didn't hit home with this guy, did it?

"Because I'm a nobody!" I said, lifting my glass forward to cheer nothing, "I… am a nobody who somehow managed to enter the same game board as somebodies. And the Duke would never agree to have a nobody become the captain of the city guards, neither would the Captain himself. It's just how things work here—this is High Rock, Wayrest, where names carry more weight than effort. Work all you will, without the right name, you'll always be a nobody." I turned for him, my turn to place my elbows on the table, "Werinwr," I said, "My name? You know what that means?"

"No," he said with an equally awkward and dumb look.

"¨Pawn,¨" I told, "Pawn! Like one of those— A piece on a board game, and not an important one. A fucking pawn! Nothing more. That is, and will forever be, what I am. It's in my fucking name. Born with it—as it! Nothing but a worthless piece on someone else's board to be moved around at their whim. Designed as nothing but to help the important pieces move forward. It's not in my fate to become anything else."

"I…" he stared, looking at me awkwardly before he turned forward to drink from his glass before he continued, "I think you'd make a good captain."

"Ha!" I repeated in laughter, leaning back in my own chair, "Sure! Well…" I took a sip to soothe the drunk enhanced anger, "If I was ever made a captain, I'd sure as hell never put the need of nobles over the needs of the people. The city-guard exists to help the people, not oppress them when they speak their minds. But it seems somewhere along the way, people forgot that. At least that's what I believed when I joined.

"So… you won't be the next captain?" he asked, insecurely.

"Pss!" I let out from sarcastic lips, bringing up my pipe only to discover it had gone out—another reason to be snarky, "After today's argument?! I'll be surprised if the Captain even lets me be a lieutenant anymore."

"Hm," he let out, sipping his wine.

"No," I continued, relighting my pipe. "As soon as this case is over I'll either be dead or back on the streets."

He gave me a sideways look as I huffed on my pipe, reluctantly thinking over the day.

Yeah… fuck me. This case? I have no idea. And if someone is covering up their tracks, I might have even less time than I first thought. The two weeks between their deaths might just be a coincidence, and now they, or it, might be coming for me before I, too, learn something I shouldn't. Heck, they might even think I already know more than I do. And I still have no idea what killed them. This fucking case.

"Varg?" I said, staring blankly ahead as I sucked on my pipe, "What do you know of werewolves?"

"Werewolves?" he repeated, giving me a confused look before he turned forward and actually seemed to search his head before he suddenly turned back toward me, again, placing both elbows on the table with a buzzing expression, "I fought a bear once!" he laughed excitingly.

"A bear?" I took the pipe out of my mouth and raised an eyebrow at the boy of a man.

"Now that was a fight worth remembering," he boomed happily, "I almost died!" he punched his left shoulder with a strong fist at the word ¨died.¨

"A bear?" I repeated, feeling a chuckle grow in my chest; so that's the leap his mind made? But he just nodded excitedly as I began laughing. "Yep, you're definitely a funny guy, Varg," I said as I stopped laughing, "This was fun, but…" I swept the rest of my wine and stood up as I put the pipe back in my mouth, "It's getting late—didn't get much sleep last night—so I should head home."

"Aye," he let out a he, too, stood up and grabbed the empty glasses and the empty pot.

"Today's been a long day," I continued, making myself ready to leave. "And as long as it've been, I have this horrible feeling tomorrow will only be longer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you liked it or share some theories; I'd love to hear them out.
> 
> I'll work on the next chapter to my main-fic before I continue on this one, so it might take a while.


	4. Tirdas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I am not sorry in the slightest that his chapter turned out as long as it did, nor that it took as long as it did.  
> Because it. is. awesome.
> 
> IMPORTANT!  
> Because I wasn't sure of the last name of certain characters, there have been a few changed to the following:
> 
> Andane Meriar - Andane Marchog  
> Mornd - Mornd Esbog  
> Rubarb - Rubarb Castell  
> The Captain - Captain Brenhines
> 
> These changes in names have no effect on the plot, they are simply symbolic.  
> I'll work on editing these new names into the previous chapters.
> 
> That said. Enjoy!  
> I do so hope you let me know what you think :)

It might not rain today but the sky was still a gloomy and depressing ceiling that hung heavily above our heads. Sure, there was that spot of light where the morning sun tried to push its shine through, but a gloomy ceiling none-the-less. But the city wasn't about to let that ruin the mood for the Summer Festival, there was music in the air to push away the depression. Instruments and songs.

Everywhere, as we walked, salesmen rang festival bells by their stands and shouted loudly to draw the attention of potential buyers. Game-keepers and entertainers advertised their craft to the masses, and once a coin or two fell in their hand they gladly passed the hammer for a strong-man to prove his strength, and the acrobats flipped over on their hands to balance plates with fruit on their feet as they danced—up-side-down—on their tiny stages. It's all fun and games. A children's paradise. And few of the ridiculous-looking jesters, wearing colorful garments and costumes, turned down gold in exchange for their—any other day of the year—embarrassment, but then, they never felt embarrassed for playing donkey, did they? As with so many others, it paid their bills and made their living.

Colorful pamphlets and decor hung from every window and store. Flowers, paper-lanterns, ribbons; some stretching over the streets as they hung from one building to another, swaying in colors of green, red, yellow, purple, and... well I'm not about to describe every color there is. Imagine the rainbow, if all the colors of the rainbow decided to split up in their separate ways to go and position themselves between every window to window and building to building. The Festival may technically have started yesterday, but it was today it really took off: Locals and tourists everywhere.

And, boy, where they everywhere: Playing table-games—dice, cardgames, cups and coins, and everything else that one could imagine was found if you only walked the right street. They were laughing and pointing fingers at entertainers, throwing tomatoes when they decided to get bored of laughing, and singing along with familiar songs and faces.

Khajiits eagerly browsing Breton-wares for their caravans and, possibly, reaching clawed fingers down others' pockets in hopes of hooking a trinket or two if one looked away. Argonians—who usually were rare in this part of Tamriel—keeping their tails away from stomping parades as they slithered the streets in search of... whatever Argonians fancied during festivities. Broad-shouldered and thick-skulled Nords cheering in groups over free mead and meat as they sang in foreign dialects and occasionally brawled one-another for sports and bets. Redguards with dreadlocks selling exotic curved blades and colorful fabrics—no one cared for the clothes, what use is desert clothing here? But their raw fabrics in crimson-red, emerald-green, and turquoise-blue sold like butter amongst the nobility for all their flamboyant hues. Orc from the countryside with crude weapons and savage armors in their stands as they stod with just as crude expression: horned eyebrows and tusks for teeth. And, of course, the occasional group of Imperial soldiers who'd gotten their allowance for some R&R as they openly attempted to charm local barmaids and store-aids.

And then we had the elves: High-Elves standing tall and proud as they dismissed expensive carpets and paintings for their—according to themselves—¨lack of quality¨ with noses so high you could see their arrogance. Antlered Wood-Elves from afar with furs and bone-crafts—smoking-pipes, walking-canes, decorations, and the such—as they had their own stands lined up with the others. And the occasional Dark-Elf sniffing through old vases and tomes with furrowed, cynical, eyebrows as they sought anything of historical or magical nature: treasure-hunters out for the mystic.

You could get lost in the masses—and many did—if you didn't know where you were going, and more likely, lost in the wares, food, and entertainment as everything sought to keep you around in the hope of snatching away your coin.

But we were no tourists, nor were we interested in any of the distractions the festival threw our way, we knew where we were going.

"So… Where are we going, Sir?" Julian asked.

Well, at least _I_ knew where we were going… Fuck me.

* * *

"The Residential District, to see Amenette—Mornd's wife—I told you yesterday," I said as I looked over at the boy walking beside me.

"Oh, that's right. F-forgive me, Sir," he answered with a stutter and looked down at the street.

He had been skittish and seemingly down all morning, but I couldn't blame him, considering the load I had dumped on him yesterday. With everything I had learned so far, about the murders, even my insides turned uneven and bloating. Though I had the feeling _that_ wasn't what had him acting nervous around me.

"About yesterday," I said, eyes forward, "I'm sorry you had to witness that."

"That's okay, Sir, I'm used to–" he stopped himself from finishing, clearly searching for better words, "I won't tell anyone about your argument with the Captain," he said.

 _¨I'm used to,¨_ so that's it then, considering how I had acted. Made me wonder what working under Andane had been like, probably the same as any other ass I had worked under when I was his age. "I don't mind the argument, but I'm sorry I yelled at you; threw paper." Thinking back, it was laughable: throwing burnt papers at him in my fit of rage. But it was no laughing matter; not the way a Lieutenant should behave. Certainly not the way he deserved to be treated.

"That's okay, Sir," he mumbled to the street, hard to hear for all the loud background noises.

"No, it's not." I said, admitted out loud, "I was tired, lost my temper, and I acted… fuck me… exactly the same as every other lieutenant I once worked under, and I hated _every_ single one of them—condescending pricks, all."

He gave me a confused and slightly suspicious look as I watched him. I knew that look, it was the lieutenants-speak-ill-of-each-other? look. I would have had the same look back then.

"I told you yesterday morning, didn't I?" I said in answer to that very look, "I'm no nobility; grew up on the streets. But, being a lieutenant, sometimes the job gets to you, and the last thing I want is to turn into the kind of man I hated growing up: the kind of man who looks down on others:" traits shared between nobility and my father.

The suspicion grew over his face, lips slightly parted and his eyes tensing up on me, and he quickly turned his head away to look forward as we walked, surely to hide just that. Still, I glanced to the side at him as we walked; he must be thinking I'm pulling his leg, heck, I would've believed the same if I had ever heard a superior speak as I just had, again, in his age.

"I guess you were tired," he suddenly mumbled, I could see the trace of a withheld smile in the corner of his mouth.

"What?" I asked confused; where's that coming from?

"Well," he continued shyly, almost carefully, "you _did_ tell me you have a bad morning temper. So I guess you must have been tired… yesterday?" he finished, awkwardly attempting to hide that smile.

"Ha," I cracked up. First laugh of the week. "I did tell you that, didn't I?" I laughed and gave him a hard pat on his shoulder that made him grunt and rattled his guard-chainmail. "Yes, I was," I said, eyes forward once more, "but I assume **you** got some sleep in last night?"

"Yes, sir," he answered both louder and more relaxed in tone than previously.

Good for him. Me on the other hand, well, last night's conversation with Varg had turned out later than I had expected—not to mention the night before that—and I still feel as if I could use four more hours of sleep. But with _this_ case, sleep deprivation is the least of my worries… Fuck me.

"And… now that I think of it," I started as the thought struck me, "Maybe it's best if you do forget about yesterday's argument. It wouldn't be good for morale if word got out that–"

"Yes, sir," he cut me off, "I understand."

"Good."

Fuck, what would others think? Citizens? Guards? Workers? The Nobility—the very political leadership of the city—think if they learned that the Captain of the City Guards and his last living lieutenant was at each other's throat? Fuck me, I'm beginning to think like the Captain.

"And for the last time, no more _Sir_ ," I said monotonously as we walked on. Suddenly feeling in an awfully lesser mood.

* * *

"Here it is," I said as I looked up at the familiar blue painted and white-framed three-floor building with colorful flowers in window boxes.

If only I could've bought my mother a house like this. She thought it a luxury to have two floors, but by width, this house was easily four times wider than hers—eight windows on the first floor alone. At least she had one more floor than I do: growing up in a cramped space together with others, living alone in a two-room apartment was more space than I'd ever need.

"Remember, work starts now…" I said as we walked through the short but wide front garden of the house that was filled with more flowers of white and blue. Green and lush well-trimmed hedges separated the garden from the streets. White and gray patterned mason—a chessboard—beneath our feet as we walked the pathway to the rounded stairs, with black-painted metal railing, that ascended to the front door.

"Act polite, professional, and… actually…" I changed my line of thought as I stopped on the third step of the smooth stone stairs and turned to look at him, "How old are you, Julian?" I had guessed early-twenties, but–

"Eighteen summers?" he answered questioningly with a confused look before I could finish my thought.

Hm, I had hoped he would be at least twenty. But now, looking at him, I had no idea why I had thought such, the boy didn't have the trace of a beard on him. I sighed, dragging my fingers over my neck.

"Actually, it's best if you don't speak at all," I said as I grabbed the railing and turned to climb the last step, " Based on your age alone, this woman won't take you as a professional no matter how you behave. Trust me."

"Yes, Sir," he said.

I looked over my shoulder and gave him a flat dull look and instantly he looked down.'

"Yes," he said sharply in self-correction, with a slight hint of shame in his nod.

I turned back to the door and reached for the knocker—a rose cast out of silver on a silver hoop—and knocked it twice. I took off my hat and flattened down my hair, corrected the twirls on my mustache, and flattened down my soul patch, as we waited for the door to open.

I knew where all my colleges lived, but I've never been the visiting type. At least not to people like them and they most likely felt the same—I've never been invited either. Though there's more than one reason for that.

"Straighten your uniform," I said without looking back. He didn't answer yet I heard the familiar sound of his hands brushing and rattling over his uniform behind me. Internally I chuckled at the ridiculous idea of attempting to straighten hard-leather and chain-mail; the faint memory of an officer pulling the same prank on me once.

The door opened and a well dressed aged Breton butler stood in the doorway in good posture, black pants and a black vest with white decorative embroidery over a white ironed down shirt.

"Mister Werinwr, sir" he greeted, polite and articulate, with a bow of his head as he saw me, casually throwing a look over my shoulder at Julian, "Is there something amiss, Sir?" he asked.

"Good morning, not at all," I greeted back, hat in hand, "We're here to see Missus Esbog."

"I'm afraid the Madam is in mourning, sir. She's not having visitors at the moment."

"And I'm afraid it's important," I said, "It's about Mornd. Work. There's been a… development."

"I see, sir. One moment, sir," he answered and closed the door in front of us and I could hear him walk away on the other side.

"Yepp," I said out loud with a sigh and threw a look at Julian who stood with flat-stretched lips and a dumbfounded look.

The door opened again as the butler returned, "The Madam will see you now," he said and stepped to the side with a fluid one-hand gesture for us to enter.

"Your coat and hat, sir?" he said, still as well-spoken, as we entered the large hallway that opened up to the main hall: a massive room with doors on the sides and a large staircase in the middle leading up to the second floor, white railing from the overlooking floor. White and blue decorative vases with flowers on small tables along the walls, expensive portraits on the walls, sky-blue drapes by the windows, carpets on the floor, and a large silver chandelier hanging high in the ceiling.

The amount of luxury some people have while others live on the streets. Fuck me.

"Yes," I answered as I was looking around, folding my officer-coat over my arm and placing my hat on it before I handed them to him.

"This way, gentlemen," he said as he had hung my coat on a hanger and we followed him toward one of the doors on the right side of the main hall.

Julian must be amazed, looking around in astonishment as we walked, but this kind of living always gave me a sour taste in my mouth, and it wasn't a taste of jealousy.

It led to a short hallway, going left, decorated with more portraits, vases, lit wall mounted candlesticks, and a long blue carpet with white fuzzy edges. A window further down the right way overlooked the main street. There was a theme to the coloring of this place—white and blue—that made me think Amanette was behind the decor more so than Mornd had been: it was too much of a woman's taste. But we didn't walk down the hallway, instead, he headed for the first door straight in front of us.

"She's waiting in here, Sir," he said as he opened the door and held it open for us to enter. And enter we did.

Another large room—a living-room—with bookshelves along the right wall, a fireplace with furniture and a low table on the left, and more blue-draped windows against the further front wall as well as the furthest one on the right: facing the street.

Amanette was standing half-turned away from us, showing more back than side, by one of the windows dressed in a thick egg-shell-white morning robe and a glass of red wine in her hand. Looking out onto the streets. Still and transfixed like a statue.

"I apologize for the early visit, Missus–" I started.

"This goddamn festival…" she interrupted broodingly in a low voice, slowly taking a sip of her wine as she remained looking out, "By the divines… all the noises… people everywhere. Damn tourists wandering the wrong streets, singing their goddamn songs and throwing trash everywhere. Why can't they keep to the _Market District?_ That's where all the _fun_ is, isn't it? Can't a woman be alone in her own house? At least the weather knows to be appropriate." Another slow sip of wine and she turned her head toward us, looking as demeaning as the tone she had carried. No trace of mourning in her face, but then, she had always been like that; showing condescendence above sorrow. "Werinwr," she greeted coldly—without the honorific.

"Missus, Esbog–"

"Oh, please," she interrupted snarky once more, " _Amanette_ , we've met enough times for politeness. You've certainly known my husband long enough," she said with another sip of wine, "and it's _Madam_ now."

"Yes, my condolences," I said, "I would have sent flowers earlier, had I known."

"Mhm…" she let out mid-emptying her glass, "¨Had you know,¨" she mimicked as she finished. "Your 'captain' told me all about it. Spared no time telling me about his ¨cover-up.¨"

"I'm sure you understand," I said.

"So when do I get to bury my husband?" she said, "or is he to lay in the morgue until he's forgotten?"

"I can't answer that, not up to me, and it's not why we're here."

"So why are you here?" she said and finally moved into the room, heading for the furniture by the fireplace, or rather, the opened bottle of wine on the table in front of it, "Domber told me you had news of him," she continued as she filled up her glass and sank into one of the cushioned chairs, fixing the loose braid of rust-red hair to go over her shoulder. She had always been a plump woman, but sitting down and leaning back as she did, her toad-neck only enhanced my view of her.

"Not exactly," I said in answer to her statement, "Something else's come up, and I think you might be able to help me.

"Oh, please sit down," she told and gestured for the chair in front of her, and that ' _please'_ of hers didn't sound polite in the slightest.

I untied and removed my rapier with scabbard from my belt before I walked over to the chair, "Hold my sword, Julian," I said and handed it to him as I took my seat. The cushioned chair was a lot softer than it looked, not to my liking as I almost sank into it, so I leaned forward and placed my elbows on my knees for a more steady and comfortable sit.

"So," I started as I looked at her, sitting back with her head facing the windows to the side as she slowly swirled her glass in front of her, "We're here about the night Mornd died. I was hoping–"

"It's been a while since I saw you last," she mumbled to interrupt, still looking off toward the windows as she took a sip. It was beginning to get annoying how often she did that: interrupt me. "When was it we last saw?"

"The Winter Ball if my memory's correct—the Duke's palace," I answered.

"Oh, right. You were there with that… that…"

"I came alone," I said to answer her train of thought.

"Oh, that's right," she said again, taking another sip before she finally turned her head to face me, "You were _alone_."

Fuck me, so that's how it is then? First, she speaks demeaningly about the Market District, the district she's very well aware of is _my_ district, then she uses my last name without honorific, and now she's poking at me for being unmarried at my age. Seems we're off to a good start.

This is why I never cared to get to know the others outside of work: the Captain might have seen my value when he made me lieutenant, but to most others, I was simply a nobody who had gotten his hand on an important title. And, according to them, important titles should only go to important names. The only reason I ever went to the damn balls and feasts and what-not was because it's expected of my position—politics.

"Listen–" I began sternly as she had gotten on my nerves.

"So who's the boy," she interrupted once more, nodding at Julian by the door behind me while uncaringly studying the red content of her swirling glass.

Fuck me.

But what could I do but bite down the frustration and take a breather? She's, after all, a mourning wife—a recent widow—and channeling her grief as condescendence might be understandable, but then, she had always treated me like this. Ironic, considering she had exchanged the name of a common salesman's daughter to that of a famed line of City Guard officers simply by marrying one. A _female-opportunist_ was one term, _gold-digger_ was another.

But salesman's daughter or not, at least she had never been a nobody. She knew it and she was far from the only one to use that against me.

So bite down I did. Reluctantly so.

"He's a second set of ears, don't mind him," I said, "And I'd more than appreciate it if we moved forward, I have a long day ahead of me."

"I'm sure you have," she said indifferently, taking another sip without looking at me. "Would you like some morning tea?"

"No, we–"

"Thank you, I'd love a cup," Julian said politely behind me.

Fuck me, I thought as I saw her face and I tilted my body and gave him a sharp warning look over my shoulder. Yet he just stood there by the door with a polite, albeit uncomfortable, smile on his face. Holding my sword.

"No…" I said. Fucking idiot. But I only have myself to blame; I should have told him before we entered. "No, we won't be staying long enough for tea, thank you for the offer though," I said as I turned back and faced Amenette, "The night of Mornd's murder, I'm here about that."

"So why are _you_ here?" she repeated with the same condescending look, the same condescending tone, and the same fucking condescending swirl of her glass as she rested her fat, spoiled, plushy, chin on her fat sausage-fingered fist, "Why not Marchog? That… _brat,_ as he is, at least knows how to behave decen–"

"Because Andane Marchog is **dead** , murdered in his own home by the same thing that very likely murdered your husband right here. That's why **I** am here." My temper was gone and I no longer intended to 'walk on glass,' let's just move ahead and bloody my soles straight on the 'shards' shall we?! "And Andane got murdered because he got too close to the murderer of your husband. And if you hate me as much as you make a show of, then you'll tell me what you know. Because if **I** get too close to the truth, then **I'll** be the next fucking one to die. So talk."

She didn't move a muscle. She only kept that indifferent look on me as she continued to indifferently swirl her glass.

"Have you ever played chess?" she suddenly asked calmly.

"Many times," I answered.

"Then you should know; compared to the other pieces on the board the _pawns_ are worth little more than _cannon fodder_. Isn't that right, _**Werinwr**_?"

This. Fucking. Woman. "Tell me about that night," I said, flatly ignoring the clear insult, if not threat, directed at my name as I leaned back in my chair and took a notepad and pen out of my left vest-pocket, but, truth be told, my insides were burning. "What happened that night?"

She sighed and turned her head toward the windows again as she began fiddling with her plump lower lip with her thumb and kept playing with her glass with her other hand. "As I told Marchog, I was knocked out. I don't remember anything from that night."

"Werewolves don't knock people out," I said, "you must know something."

She kept looking at the window, transfixed and tired. "I…" she let out hesitantly. Slowly. Still looking at the window. "I think my husband was having an affair."

"An affair?" I asked. This is new and unexpected. Not the picture I had of Mornd at all, he always spoke lovingly of his wife—albeit, knowing her, no idea why. "What makes you say that?"

"I've– _**We've**_ been married for almost thirty years. I know my husband," she spoke slowly, eyes on the window still as she sighed, "and I know when he's not his usual self."

"Not his usual self, he's been acting off? How long?"

"No. No. Not really," she continued. "He's been his usual self, but…" she trailed off. Poking even slower at her lip. No longer swirling her glass.

"¨But¨ what?" I asked carefully, still taking notes.

But she only sighed, "I don't know… I guess it's one of those things only a _wife_ would know."

"You must know something," I said, "I need proof, clues, suspicions… anything. And ¨a wife knows things¨ isn't one of those."

"As if _you_ would know," she snapped and looked coldly at me. Her dark eyes didn't look so indifferent anymore. For the first time since we came, she actually showed sadness, which is why I, once again, ignored her snarky remark at my status of marriage.

"Let's back up," I said calmly, "You said you think he's been having an affair? What makes you believe that?"

"I don't know? He's been…" again, she faded off, slightly looking around in thought. "It's… A wife **knows** these things," she explained confidently yet… clearly uncertain.

"Had he been meeting someone? Before he died?"

"No!" she said flustered, "He's been– or? I… It's strange but… I opened the door and?  
or? I don't think so… but…" again, she faded off: looking around in confusion, twitching her head back and forth, seemingly lost in thought as she looked to search her memory.

"You opened the door?" I asked, slightly confused at her behavior.

"What?" she looked at me, "No." She sounded certain. No longer confused.

"You _said_ you opened the door," I repeated.

"I didn't," she snapped, "And I never said that."

"Yes you did," I said, studying her face as I held up my notepad for her to see as I had written down her every word.

She looked at it with hard eyes. Hard eyes turning confused once more. For some reason it reminded me of how Andane's maid had acted when questioned—which only fed my growing suspicion to ask:

"Was someone here the night he died?

"What do you **want** , Werinwr?!" she snapped, turning tense in her seat as she suddenly looked straight at me with pure, heated, annoyance as her struggling thoughts had clearly been discarded from her mind. "Are you here to accuse me as well?! First that Marchog, and now you too?! You damn imbeciles, you're all the same. My husband's **dead** , for fucks sake!" she kept screaming, face turning red and the fat on her neck fluttered as her anger grew.

Accuse? Why would Andane accuse her of anything? But then, knowing Amanette, simply asking the wrong question would be enough merit for her to deem it an accusation.

"Why would Andane accuse you of anything?" I asked calmly.

"It's the whole reason he came back! Isn't it!?" she flustered.

"Wait," I stopped her; blinking at her statement, "He came _back_? When? And why?"

"Last Turdas!" she shouted, not calming down in the slightest, "Showing up out of nowhere, knocking on my door uninvited. Asking me if I had ¨slept through the night!¨ Can you imagine that? Accusing _me_ of **sleeping** through the murder of my own **husband**! A werewolf in my own house! Sleep?! I was knocked out! How could I possibl– The nerve of that boy!"

Why would he ask if– "Did you wake up in your bed?" I asked as the thought hit me—it's the only explanation. "The morning after his murder? Before you found him, did you wake up in your bed?"

"I knew it," she said, slowing down in both tempo and volume, head tilting back as her eyes told me something had snapped, "You disrespectful piece of shit. You're no better than that spoiled banker's son. And you?–"

"Amanette, I meant no–"

Barely could I finish as she threw her wine in my face, abruptly silencing me mid-sentence.

Fuck me, I thought with a sigh from behind squeezed shut eyes as I wiped the wine out of my face with my hand: the smell rich in my nose and taste bitter and coarse in my mouth. Fuck me indeed, this is over the top even for her. As I finally got to open my eyes she was standing, leaning, over the table, looking down at me. And I felt pissed beyond description: clenched teeth and eyes set.

"You always were a self-righteous arrogant bastard," she said as I looked up at her, making no attempt at hiding my bitterness. And yeah, _**I'm**_ the self-righteous arrogant bastard? Fuck me. "You come to my house uninvited? Unannounced? Invite strangers to my home?" she gestured insultingly toward Julin behind me, "With **no** good news about my husband whatsoever, and now you expect me to listen when you insult me in my own home?! As if I have to pay attention to some sewer-rat who managed to crawl out of the docks? Me! Listen to someone who's name's not even worth mentioning?!"

"Amanette, we're only–" I started sharply.

"Get out of my house you whoreson!" she shouted with bloodshot eyes before turning her attention to the door, "Domber! **Domber**!" she shouted.

"At your service, Madam," I heard the butler answered as politely as ever as he opened the door and entered the room behind me.

"Show them to the door, they're **done** here," she shouted at the man.

"Yepp," I said to myself as I grabbed the armrests and pushed myself up to stand as he answered her with a polite and calm: _Right away, Madam._ "My sword, Julian?" I said as I turned for the boy who stood with the body language of 'I'm invisible, I'm invisible, I'm invisible! Don't see me, don't see me, don't see me!' "Julian?" I repeated calmly and he snapped out of it and awkwardly held out my rapier for me.

"And get someone to clean this mess up!" she continued shouting as I looked down and reattached the scabbard to my belt while slowly thinking: _juuuust breathe._

"I'll send a maid right away, Madam," he answered calmly and composed as I finished with my belt and prepared to leave.

"And where's that bottle of wine I sent for?!" she continued behind me, "Is there no one here who can do their goddamn jobs?! Why am I paying you?!"

"I'll have another bottle sent right away, Madam. Red or white?" he asked, still as calm and polite as he had been since the moment we had entered, as I walked past him into the hallway, Julian following close behind.

"Red!" she shouted from the room.

"A _very_ good choice, Madam." he answered and calmly closed the door and turned for us with a straight back and a calm, unaffected, and gentle face, "If the two gentlemen would follow me right this way," he said and began walking.

"Gladly," I said in bitter relief as we followed. "I have to ask, how can you stay so calm around her?"

"I am a professional, sir," he answered plainly while walking.

"Honestly, I don't even understand how you can _work_ for her," I said, still focusing on taking deep breaths.

"As I said, I'm a professional, sir," he answered, again, just as plainly.

"Ha," I let out with an exhale. But honestly, I was impressed. Well-spoken, articulate, and composed no matter what; there was something deeply respectable about this man. "Well, I sure as hell wouldn't have the patience nor temper to work for someone like her every day of the week. _Fat cunt_ , is what she is." The last sentence felt good to say out loud.

"If you say so, sir," he said, completely unaffected by my insult.

Fuck me, a professional indeed. But then, I guess he'd have to be in order to keep sane.

He stopped and turned for us as we had reached the main entrance in the main hall, "One moment, sirs," he said and walked off as we remained to wait.

Again, I sighed as I watched him speak to one of the maids, surely prioritizing the ¨Madam's¨ needs before he got to the task at hand: throwing us out.

I lifted my hands and dragged them over my face, wiping away more of the wet wine. I looked down at my uniform, a large wet, red, stain from my neck to my center-chest. "Fuck me," I muttered and attempted to wipe some away with my hand. At least it didn't show that well on brown leather. Still, I barely got _anything_ off. And now my hands were wet with the smell of wine. Fuck me, what a sight I must be. I smacked my tongue in annoyance and looked over at Julian—looking as awkward as one could imagine—suddenly feeling very tired.

"Don't fret it," I said reassuringly as I lowered my hands, holding them out halfway down to my sides. "Honestly, I'm surprised it went as well as it did."

"As it… did?" he said, more confused than disagreeing—I couldn't tell if he was about to piss his pants or fold over laughing.

"I thought she'd throw us out sooner," I said, not able to hide a small chuckle.

"Aaalright," he let out with an awkward note of humor and turned away to hide a clenched smirk.

"Your towel, sir," the butler's voice said and I turned my head to watch him approach with the company of a maid. Another maid in the background heading for the living room with cleaning tools and a bucket.

"Thank you," I said as the maid handed me a clean white towel. It was warm.

The butler spoke quietly with the maid while I wiped off my face, hands, and chest, and as he finished she gave a curtsy and abruptly left.

"Domber, was it?" I asked, still wiping my hands.

"Domber Moesgarwch, at your service," he responded with a straight bow.

"We've never met, have we?"

"No, sir."

"Yet you answered the door with my name."

"Knowing the names and appearances of my employers' acquaintances is required of me, sir."

"Hm," a professional indeed, "Mind if I ask you a few questions?" I asked as I held out the now red-stained towel.

He clapped his hands and another maid appeared from a door on the left side. She accepted the towel and disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.

"I am at your service, sir," he answered with a cooperative nod.

"The night of Mornd's murder, I need to speak with everyone that was here that night."

"Except for the Mister and Missus themselves, no one was present at the time, sir."

"No one?"

"Myself, as well as my staff, all end our workday as soon as dinner has been cleaned away, sir. The Madam was very clear in my employment that none of the staff live or remain here come the darker hours. The Madam has always respected her and her husband's privacy."

"So, other than them, no one was here by the time of the murder?"

"No, sir. I personally remain until all my staff has left, as to make sure."

"No visitor?"

"Had there been a visitor before my departure I would remain here, to attend to their needs."

"So if they did have a visitor, he would've needed to arrive after you've left?"

"Quite so, sir."

"I see," I said, sinking into thought with a deep breath as I fixed the twirls of my mustache—The detail on my mind was: _I opened the door._ If there had been no staff present at the time, Amanette herself would have to answer the door. It fit.

"Ah, here we are," Domber said, drawing me back to reality, as the first maid had returned with a braided basket holding two bottles of wine and a small wooden box. He took the first bottle, held it by its neck, and rested its weight on his forearm as he presented it in eye contact. "On behalf of the Madam, who apologizes wholeheartedly for her outburst, as well as on behalf of the house, I present a gift toward the damage on your uniform as well as your person. A late third era ¨Gwell Na Sudd,¨ red…" he returned the bottle to the basket and took, to present, the other one, "as well as a late third era ¨Hylif Melyn Blasus,¨ white. And, from the Mister's personal collection…" again, he returned the bottle and went for the box, " one box of ¨Tybaco Fanila,¨ his all-time favorite—he won't be needing it anymore, sir." he held the tobacco-box open and a rich aromatic scent of vanilla filled the air before he shut it and returned that as well to the basket. "I hope you accept the Madam's apology."

Well fuck me, I thought, this is something I've never experienced before.

"Late third era?" I said, feeling the need to decline; that's over two hundred years old, "Sound's expensive."

"Not as expensive nor rare as one would think, sir," he stated reassuringly.

Fuck me once more, a professional indeed. Not only had he acted as politely and composed as he had during our entire visit, but now he even worked to repair the damage his employer had caused the family name: she had, after all, assaulted a lieutenant of the City Guard, that's more than enough for an open trial. Not to mention what would happen had a ¨commoner¨ done it, I know far too well that would've ended with death.

Though I couldn't decide if this was an honest apology or a bribe? But then, did it matter? There's no way in hell Amanette would apologize for anything—she played no part in this—and that thought alone made up my mind: I'd grab anything he gave if only to spite her.

"Ha," I let out unwillingly, for I was impressed, "I'm no fool—she doesn't deserve you, Domber," I said in hope of the words to stick.

"I'm well aware, sir," he answered and actually gave me a wink and a smile, the first genuine expression I had seen on his face so far.

"Ha," I laughed once more. "Thank you, I accept."

"Your coat and hat, sir," he said and gestured for the hanger as the maid handed over the basket, and I, in turn, gestured to Julian who took it.

* * *

"So," I mumbled as I poked a lump of my newly acquired vanilla-scented tobacco into my pipe while we entered the noisy street and left the residence behind us.

"I don't think she likes you," Julian said.

"Ha," I scoffed as I lit my pipe and sucked glow into the dried leaves. "No she doesn't," I said as the smoke turned thick and white with my exhales; aromatic and rich with vanilla, though, admittedly, it smelled a lot better than it tasted, and it did little to cover up the smell of wine. Still, it was a smooth and sweet taste. And calming nonetheless. Precisely what I needed. To think my mood had been good before we entered. "You better get used to moment's like that if you're going to work with me. I'm not as well treated as the others in my rank."

"Because you're a commoner?" he asked.

"Exactly," I said, puffing on the pipe, "It's as simple as that."

"Did something happen between you two?" he asked.

I gave him a sideways look and puffed on my pipe before I took it out of my mouth. "No," I said.

"Then why?"

I sighed, he had a good point. But he was naive. "Because I'm a commoner," I repeated, thinking it'd be enough of an explanation. But, judging by his face, it wasn't. "It's nothing personal, really," I said. "It's just that I managed to enter a room where I shouldn't be. And even if _some_ don't care enough to let me know, _others_ don't hesitate to scream at me to leave."

"Like…" he started with a confused look, "Like stepping into the wrong bathhouse?"

"Ha," I let out, "You have no idea how right you are. It definitely feels like I've stepped into the wrong bathhouse." I stopped in my steps and took my pipe to my mouth again, puffed slowly on the soft vanilla taste as I looked at the moody sky while Julian stopped beside me. "And honestly… Julian… Sometimes I do feel like turning around. To turn around and leave that room, so I no longer have to hear them scream at me. But then…" I looked at the boy with a tired sigh. The boy who listened. "But then I realize I'm the only one who actually earned the right to be there in the first place. And so I stay."

He blinked at me as he looked to think it over. "But… is that worth it?"

Another tired sigh as I turned my eyes down the streets and looked at all the singers, dancers, tourists, and whatnot that shared laughter everywhere. The children playing.

"Is it worth it?" I mumbled, taking the pipe to my mouth to give a slow brooding suck before a smokey exhale. I've given up everything that's called a normal life to get where I am. What accounts for normal life to someone like me anyway: a wife: children. Barely any friends left. And close to no one appreciates my effort. But at least I've done what my father couldn't: give my mother a good life. "Yes," I said, "It's worth it."

And hopefully, one day, there'll be something in it for me as well. But I'm fine either way.

"Oh," I let out, "And I thought I told you not to speak at all," I said, giving him a look.

"I…" he started with a defensive look, "I mean… she offered tea. I was just trying to be polite."

"Ha," I said sarcastically, " _Polite_ , eh? Here's the thing about nobility: they don't care for ¨ _polite¨_. They only care for wealth, social status, name, and profession—in that order."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they speak their own language. And unless you have any of those four, you don't speak their language. And you just witnessed first hand how someone with the first three treats someone who's only managed to get his hand on the last."

"What… does this have to do with tea?" he asked.

"That's the language," I said, again hoping it'd explain but seeing it didn't. "If nobilities have important guests over, they'll have their staff serve you tea no questions asked. But if they _ask_ whether you want tea or not, it means you're unwelcome." Still, the confusion on his face only grew.

It was an understandable reaction: common people asked because they couldn't afford to make tea in case a guest wasn't staying long enough to finish it. Simply put, it was wasteful. But his face said I still needed to explain further.

"It's their _polite_ way of saying ¨fuck off,¨" I simplified it, bringing up my pipe for another suck.

"That… seems a bit passive-aggressive," he said, raising his eyebrows as he understood.

"Ha," I let out with a smoke-filled breath, a laugh, " _That_ they are," I said, "all of them, a passive-aggressive bunch.

That's why I always preferred to work with my kind—commoners. They were straightforward and honest. Insult someone and the worst thing to happen is a fist to your face, but with nobility? Insult them and they'll treat you like trash until you believe you are. Not to mention the demeaning rumors they so easily spread to foul others' names.

"So…" I started anew, looking over at Julian as other thoughts, the more important thoughts, brewed in my mind. "What do you think?"

"About what?" he asked.

"Our meeting with Amanette?"

"Ah," he let out and looked away in thought before looking back, "I don't think we learned that much.

"On the contrary," I said, taking my pipe to my mouth as I watched over the streets with an uncomfortable feeling. After this exchange of words—with Amanette—I had the feeling I needed to be careful where we spoke. But I saw no one suspicious in the passing crowds. No one who seemed to listen in or eye us. And they all looked too distracted or too far away to listen in anyway. But then, if my suspicion is correct, would someone need to be present to listen in? If they didn't, then it mattered little where we spoke, and so I spoke on: "I think we learned plenty."

His face took on a confused look; he didn't see it, did he?

"There's a number of things that have been on my mind regarding this case," I started to explain, "The _two weeks_ between the murders for one. If someone, or something, was hunting us lieutenants, then why the two weeks between the murders? Why not move faster? We're not hard to find. And, our other theory, if something's covering up their tracks, then, again, why the two weeks?"

"Something covering up its tracks would probably work as quickly as possible," he said, right on point with my thought.

"Exactly," I said.

"And…" he looked in thought again, "Lieutenant Marchog… Andane, came to see her last Turdas," he said as the thought struck.

"You're catching on," I said, still, he didn't see it. "Yes, I don't think it's a coincidence that Andane was killed only a couple of days after he returned to Mornd's place of murder. I actually don't think Andane was intended to be a victim at all."

"But why did he come back?" he asked.

"Isn't that obvious?" I asked, studying his face.

Interesting, how this boy's face- and body-language practically told you he was thinking: the way he blinked, slunk down shoulders as he thought.

"The same thing _we_ thought yesterday?" I said to help him place the pieces.

"Because…" he started slowly, still thinking before it hit him, "Because he figured something out?"

"Exactly," I said, nodding at him with the mouth-end of my pipe, "Yesterday it was only a theory, but it's been confirmed now: What reason would Andane possibly have to return to talk to Amanette? He had the files: the rapports he had written from the crime scene, his original questioning of her—the files he burnt before he died. No, I think he returned because he figured out the very same thing we did."

"Werewolves don't knock people out," he said, finished; glad to see he was catching on, it made things easier.

"Exactly," I repeated, "And Amanette said it herself: he returned to ask if she had ¨slept through the night.¨"

"But how's that possible? Sleeping through something like that?" he asked. It was another fair question, the very question that made me certain my suspicions were warranted.

"She said she opened the door, on the night of his murder," I started, "and Domber confirmed no staff had been present, so she would've had to—had someone been knocking."

"But she denied–"

"That's the next part. She didn't outright deny it as a fact, but rather, she seemed in _denial_ of it as a thought. Noticed how she became confused when recalling the night?"

"As if she couldn't remember," he said.

"¨as if she couldn't remember,¨" I repeated in confirmation. "On the night of Andane's murder, the maid had acted the same way when questioned: Confused and then, just like Amanette, she had turned very defensive. Insulted even."

"The maid?" he asked.

That's right, Julian hadn't been there.

"The maid," I said, "the one you took home."

"Right."

"Back then, I had blamed her memory loss on trauma—it made sense—but now–"

"Someone messed with their memories?" he suddenly asked, surprisingly on point with my pattern of thought.

"Julian," I said, an impressed smile taking form on my face as I looked at the awkward-looking boy, "Perhaps that name gave you some of Julianos's wisdom after all."

"I… Thank you? Sir," he said, visually embarrassed.

"Indeed," I continued, "I believe she **did** open the door that night, and the culprit somehow messed with her memories, as he had done with the maid, and sent her to bed. I mean… think about it. Had a werewolf been in their homes, it would've killed the maid and Amanette as well. It didn't, because it _wasn't_ a werewolf."

"Same theories we had yesterday," he said.

"Yes," I said, "But now they're no longer _just_ theories, they're _highly likely_ theories. Actually, they're pretty damn close to being confirmed. But here's the thing, some sort of beast definitely killed Andane—the Coroner confirmed that—so…" I looked over at the boy to watch his reaction once more, "which theory fits best with the idea of someone _messing with their memories_ and having a _beast_ take care of the killing?"

"A beast summoning mage," he answered and I dotted my nose with my finger.

"It's the most likely one," I confirmed. "But you're forgetting one important detail. Perhaps the most important thing we've learned today." The detail that had me put on guard. The detail that made my skin cold. He looked at me, clearly not understanding what I was getting at, and so I continued, "If it wasn't a coincidence that Andane was murdered less than three days after returning to rewalk his steps, then the culprit–"

"Must have known he did so," Julain interrupted abruptly to finish my sentence.

"Yes," I said, that chill knowingly getting colder as I, again, looked over the streets: noticing nothing of suspicion. "And if the culprit _knew_ he had returned, then the culprit must have kept an eye on his progress on the case. And if they kept an eye on him, they're undoubtedly keeping an eye on us. It's the only logical conclusion: Andane wasn't a target until he decided to dig deeper—three or two days before he died. And whoever killed him, _knew_ that he had gone to dig deeper."

Now—nervous looking and tense—Julian too was looking over the streets as he saw the danger of my theory. Because now _we_ had figured out the very thing that most likely got Andane killed. And it's highly likely that someone was, or is, watching us as they had Andane.

"But could a mage do that?" he asked, "Mess with memories and summon beasts?"

"I'm not even close to an expert on anything magic," I said with a deep breath through my pipe, and clearly, neither was Julian. "Other than some titles and schools, I barely know anything. I don't know if _one_ mage could do it. But a _summoner_ could definitely do one, and a…" I searched for the word, "an _illusionist_ the other? As we suspected yesterday, there's no reason to think there's only one culprit. And a mage could watch us from afar with their crystal balls and what-not." And that only strengthened the theory of an organization.

Fuck me, the Captain might be right to worry about an organized conspiracy. But what are they covering up? What's their true motive? A coup? And if that **is** the case, what chance do **I** stand against an organization of mages?

"So what now?" he asked.

"Now…" I started, taking another puff of my pipe, "Now I'm afraid we need to see more mages than I had originally hoped for."

* * *

The Mages District.

It sat in a small corner of the city. So small in fact that it had no District Lieutenant in charge of it, only the common City Guards that took turns in patrolling the three blocks it consisted of. The mages kept mostly to themselves, isolated in their own little world of books and magic, only rarely leaving their homes of research and study if they needed something they couldn't get their assistant to fetch. Still, the three blocks were riddled with tiny shops and stores selling trinkets, lucky charms, books, alchemy ingredients, potions, and so on. After all, even mages needed to pay their rent, and so they sold most of their random belongings once they no longer had any use for them. And, with all the tiny shops, it was currently as infected with tourists and travelers as the Market District itself. But it was still quieter, no taverns, food-stands, or festivities here that gave reason for songs and cheering.

Like the Market District, it was easy to get lost and distracted in window-shopping: all the overfilled shelves with stacks of books, trinkets, and gadgets that one could never guess the intention of nor the thought behind. But the store we were in search of had no windows.

"Down here," I said as we entered the narrow alleyway, barely two men wide, with three-floored buildings pressing in from the sides so tightly that, other than a cloudy gray strip above, they blocked out the sky.

I ignored the trash piling up along the walls as I walked, and I ignored, still, the frightened shabby cat that jumped out of one of the piles with a high-pitched screech and, in turn, frightened Julian behind me as it dashed past our feet toward the street, until we reached the familiar green door on the left side halfway down the alleyway. I heard glass break as I knocked on it, rushed feet shuffling, and the small hatch in the door opened abruptly and a familiar set of coal-red eyes squinted through the hatch before slamming it shut before I could say a word.

"That's about right," I mumbled as I lifted my fist and pounded on the door once more.

"You're not getting a refund, Clyfar!" his Dunmer-dialect shouted from within as I heard him rush to clean away whatever illegal activities he was up to this time.

"I'm not here about the potion," I said back, "And I'm not here to arrest you either."

"You're not!?" he shouted back. I could tell from his muffled voice that he was far in the room.

"I don't care what you're up to—never have. I need your help!"

The noises turned quiet for a while, and I remained waiting. "Just… Just give me a minute." I heard him say.

"Potion?" Julain asked curiously beside me and I looked over my shoulder.

"Got a toothache a while back," I said and looked forward at the door, "and _Zirimir_ here," I raised my voice, "sold me a potion to **fix it**!"

"Not my fault!" he defended from inside.

"It didn't work?" Julian asked.

"Oh, it worked alright," I said. "The toothache went away, but it also made my tooth taste like a pickle. So after three days, I had the blacksmith pull it out either way."

"Not my fault!" he repeated from within.

"You wouldn't believe the morning-breath I had," I said to Julian who looked as amused as one would be. "It wasn't fun," I told at his smile.

"I only said it'd fix your tooth!" Zirimir kept shouting, "How was I to know–"

"For fucks sake, Zirimir! If you're gonna listen in from the other side of this door you might as well open it!" I shouted to interrupt as I again pounded on it to rush him, followed by foreign muttering as I heard him unlock the door from inside.

"Clyfar. Sera. F'lah," he greeted awkwardly with a glued-on smile as he held the door open and gestured for us to enter.

"Enough with that," I said as I entered with Julian close in tow. "I already told you I'm not here for that."

"So you're not… mad?" he asked as I looked around the cramped, cluttered, room for a place to sit.

The bookshelves along the walls were so full that Zirimir had stacked books even on top of the rows already in them, even on the floor along the walls. Shelves so stacked with trinkets and magical what-not that they looked to fall down from the weight alone at any moment. Alchemy tables, foreign ingredients, dried flowers, and tools everywhere. Glowing stones, jars with dead tiny creatures in a dirty-looking liquid, colorful potion-bottles. Even small box-sized cages stood stacked on top of each other, most of them were empty but some held tiny critters and one held a loud chirping imp. Been a while since I saw one of those—nasty little winged things, with tight leathery skin and angry teeth and eyes. I remember there having been a set of stairs to the second floor on the opposite side of the room, but now, I couldn't see it. Must've disappeared behind all the boxes and drapes.

The smell of this place. It was hard to describe it, neither good nor bad, a mix between scented candle-wax, herbs, aromatic liquids, and animal spillings.

The man was a hoarder. But then, most mages seemed to be hoarders to some degree, the downside of extreme multitasking I guess. A hundred irons in the forge, as they say.

"I'm not mad," I said as I spotted, and made my way to, a chair with a pile of books on it next to a table covered with papers and jars of ink.

"That's– that's nothing…" Zirimir started as he rushed past me, "nothing for your eyes… really," he stuttered as he hastily pushed the papers together and rolled them together as I took the books off the chair.

"As I said, I don't care," I said as I sat down and placed my hat on the table as I watched him scurry off to lean down and stick the roll between some boxes. He waved his hand, made a gesture, and I heard the door lock from a distance as he turned back to face me, using his heel to push the roll deeper in the crack with a nervous, twitchy, look.

"You said you needed my help?" he blurted out.

"Julian, this is Zirimir Dwylo'n-llawn," I introduced and gestured at the Dunmer. "He's what you call a ¨Jack of all Trades,¨ an expert of nothing with a finger up every sleeve."

"I'm not– I don't have that—who said that?" he said eccentrically, eyes going big as he began fiddling with his fingers—a nervous tics.

"He deals in a little bit of everything that's magic, so he's my go-to guy whenever I have questions of such nature…" The imp began chirping loudly as I spoke, shaking its cage, and Zirimir quickly rushed over, muttering foreign curses, to throw a blanket over it to silence the nervous creature. "And so far he's been quite helpful, and even if he does rebel every now and then he always folds."

"But that's only because you!–" he started, turning for me with big eyes as he rushed across the room to remove a boiling, strong-smelling, liquid from a small stove.

"As I said, I'm not going to arrest you," I interrupted and gestured reassuringly with my hand, "Not as long as you keep being helpful."

He looked away and mumbled a series of words—'s'wit' was the only one I understood—before looking back at me with squinted eyes.

"Speaking of which," I said, "What are you up to now?"

"Roses," he answered abruptly.

"Roses?" I asked, seeing no roses amongst all the clutter.

He looked at me in silence for a while before that eccentric look returned on his face, "Did you know the petals on roses grow in an expanding circular pattern? That they spiral with a constant factor?" he asked greedily.

"No," I said.

"Yes. They all follow a logarithmic spiral that can be recorded in not only roses but other places as well: seeds, fruits, the growth of horns, the shape of shells. Even _storms_ on a grander range follow the same systematic spiral spreading over a geographic scale…" he wandered back to the piles of books and took out the roll of papers he had originally hidden as he spoke, "so not only is that spiral found in the petty, but also the grand. It's mathematical law of nature," he rolled out the papers on the table again and eagerly pointed, showed, and followed spiral-shaped drawings with his finger, "of course there's an obvious divergent between the alterations of scale, but they all follow the same mathematical principles: the Fibonacci ratio," he showed a paper with numbered squares drawn on it, "and by using the ratio, we can recreate the spiral by following the corners created by the division of constant two—it's flawless and–"

"I see," I muttered, not understanding a word. And he clearly saw that I didn't follow along as he gave a big-eyed look, closed his eyes in a sigh, and opened them again.

"I believe this law is fundamental in the creation of Nirn; one of the mathematical cornerstones of our very existence. Imagine the magical possibilities if this _cornerstone_ was to be utilized in a functioning fashion, one could very possibly reshape the world. Perhaps even create a new–"

"Enough," I said and waved my hand at him, "You lost me when you stopped talking about roses."

"No, I–"

"Speaking of worlds; as you can see, Julian…" I said and looked over at the boy who still stood by the door, looking around in curiosity, "Zirimir here is a bit of an air-head who lives very much in his own world," I continued.

"No-no-no-no…" he stuttered, throwing a glance at a large, curtain-covered, object in the corner—looked to be a large box, "So far that experiment's never worked. No. I mean– there's so much more to it than that, the rift-theorem for creating worlds is unbelievably complex and . . . to shape Oblivion? Tear it? To create a realm on one's own?! I mean… that's so far unthinkable—very few have– and even if one would use soul gems, the required amount as well as th–" he quickly looked back at me with an intense look, "I don't have any black soul gems," he said abruptly, "I mean– Those are illegal."

"I'm sure you don't," I said, certain of the opposite.

"And if I do I– I definitely didn't fill them myself, no-no. I mean, that would be–"

" _Veery_ illegal," I said with a slow nod to finish his rambling sentence. "But I don't have all day. So shall we?"

"Right," he answered hastily while rolling up the papers again, "right, right."

"But before we do, I have to ask," I said, leaning my elbows on my knees as I looked at him, "Is it possible for a mage to listen in on conversations from a distance?"

"Secretly?" he asked, throwing a spell as the roll in his hand took on a faint blue tint and floated, with the guidance of his hand, back into the crack of books. "I'd say no. Long-range communication is always two-sided, and takes a vast amount of knowledge, understanding, and effort of not only the magic involved but on the targeted subjects as well."

"Layman's terms please," I said.

"Well…" he started, poking his at his lips in search of a simpler explanation, "If… if _you_ can't communicate with _them, they_ most likely can't communicate with _you_."

"Most likely?"

"You would need to meet beforehand in order to form a telepathic link, and… no offense, Clyfar, but I don't think you're even close to capable of creating the magic need–"

"I can't," I interrupted to assure, "and none taken."

"And even if someone has formed a link with you without your knowledge, that'd only give them the ability to speak to you. You wouldn't be able to speak back to them."

"I see." That's a relief, makes talking easier assuming Zirimir is right, he hasn't always been. "Next question then: could someone _watch_ from a distance?" I asked. "Those… crystal balls?"

"Oh, that's easier. But not here, no-no-no. I have wards for that," he said, throwing frantic nods at the corners of the room; a glowing gem—soul gems—placed on a stand in all the four corners of the room. "My research is far too important! Equally secret. No prying eyes here, no-no-no. None."

"So it's possible?"

"Certainly," he said. "but there are a few requirements for long-distance observations."

"Such as?"

"Familiarity, for one," he said, "you can't observe a location have you not been there prior: a mark spell. Or…" he thought for a second," you'd have to bind a mark-spell to an _object_ , enchant it,and send said object to the location you wish to observe."

"Hm," I let out, leaning further forward as I pulled at my soul patch in thought, 'popping' my lip, and glanced at the basket Julian was holding.

If someone wanted to plant a ¨observation object¨ on us, that'd be it. But it also made no sense—just a thought—Amanette would be the last one to be behind these murders. Domber then? No.

"Julian," I said to draw his attention, straightening up and turning to Zirimir as Julain came over. "Could you tell me if these objects have such a spell on them?" I asked as I took the basket out of Julian's hands and placed it on the table.

"They don't," he said with a confused look," I would've noticed when you entered."

"Good. I didn't think so," I said. Again, that's a relief. "But better safe than sorry."

"¨Better safe than sorry?¨ Why would you think–" Zirimir said before stopping himself, "Wait… N'chow, what have you gotten yourself into, Clyfar?" he asked, suddenly looking nervous as I looked up at him from my thoughts.

"I have to ask," I started, resting my chin on my fists, "How much do you know about the recent murders?"

"Murders?" he asked, furrowing his distinct dunmer-eyebrows, "I don't know anything about any murders?" He both sounded and looked genuine in his statement.

"The District Lieutenants?" I added, looking at his reaction: nothing but confused blinking.

"The animal attack?" he asked, confused, before bringing his fist to his lips in thought. "About a month ago? What was his name… Casel? Callel? The Temple District Lieutenant."

"Rubarb Castell," I corrected.

"Right," he said and snapped his finger as he turned his focus back at me, "That was a murder?"

"The first…" I straightened myself up again. "Mornd Esbog turned up dead two weeks after him, and Andane Marchog two weeks after that—last sundas."

"Wait… that's the other district Lie–" he started, eyes turning serious.

"I know," I interrupted in a low voice, "And I'm next."

"B'vehk," he uttered as he turned away in thought, looking in need of a breather.

"This is all classified so–"

"I get it," he said as he turned back. "So… What will you do?"

I sighed at the question—it was literally a question of life and death: Solve the case and live, take too long and die.

"Skipping all the details," I started, "I think a mage or a group of mages are behind it. So I have to ask: are you aware of any rumors, groups, organizations, or such that would seek to weaken the City Guards?"

"No…" he said with a serious look, shaking his head, "Nothing of such."

"Anyone who's up to something they'd be willing to murder in order to cover up?" I asked.

"No," he repeated with a shake of his head, "But I'm not that social—I mostly keep to myself."

"I know," I said, "But I also know you're far from the only one who's doing illegal research in this city."

"No," he agreed, "But I doubt anyone would resort to murder… I mean… District Lieutenants? I'd think that, in itself, would draw _more_ attention than it'd cover. It hardly seems worth the risk."

"I agree," I said. still, it's the strongest theory I have. "So… How much do you know about summoning?"

"Summoning?" He looked surprised at the statement. "My fair share, but why?"

"They were all killed by what looks to be a werewolf," I said to explain. "But, It seems likely someone is keeping an eye on the case, and, outside of a full moon, a werewolf seems highly unlikely with the planning behind the murders. Unless it was summoned."

"I see," he said and looked over the room, scratching his temple in thought. "Are you sure it's a werewolf?" he asked as he looked back.

"Not so sure anymore," I said with a shake of my head, "The Coroner wasn't too sure of it either—none of the victims had any bite marks—but whatever killed them walked upright, had claws on both front and hind legs, humanoid hands, monstrous strength, and was large in posture."

"How large?" he asked.

"Hard to say, but Andane was lifted by his head before the beast…" I cleaned my throat for search of a gentler sentence, and as usual, found none, "Before the beast _crushed_ his head with his bare hands."

"B'vehk," he let out in a soft, unnerved, tone. "How tall is Andane?"

"Average—bit shorter than me."

"Hm," he let out, crossing his arms as he again seemed to float off into thought, mumbling in a low voice. "Well you Bretons are short by default, an Orc, Redguard, or Nord could easily manage to lift you, and… _some_ might even have the strength to crush a head—assuming they were well over the average physical build… that were, were it not for the claws… so for a beast to lift you? Assuming it's _not_ a werewolf… there are plenty of other beasts capable of that…" he kept mumbling to himself as he looked away into nothing.

"The claw marks on Andane's head were large," I pitted in as he thought, drawing his brief attention, "Large enough that one hand alone could engulf half his head, and, as I said, humanoid in form—five fingers."

He hummed deeper for the comment, bringing his hand to his mouth as he pressed his upper lip together between his thumb and index finger. "Well your head ratio is not much different than other man-races, a bit rounder in lower form, but for width and cranial shape… not that much different. In comparison to the hand-size of Man and Mer… Deadra's… It must at least be twice your size—at the smallest—or well over two heads taller than an Altmer… but much broader, considering the strength…and five fingers, you say?" He asked, throwing me a look.

"Yes."

"With claws," he mumbled on. "I am well aware of the principles and theories behind summoning—the magical channels—but I never was much of a bestiary… but had it been summoned it must be a creature of Oblivion, that much is certain. By size, it could be a clannfear, but they only have three fingers… or was it four? Or, perhaps, a daedroth? no-no-no, teeth are their primary method of killing, and with no bite marks? And they, too, don't have five fingers… Can't be a daedroth either…"

"Could it be a werewolf?" I had to ask, he didn't seem to be going anywhere with his thoughts. At least nowhere helpful.

He turned to look at me once more, holding his fist to his lips. "It… would fit," he said, "but here's the thing: summoning a beast from pocket-realm of Oblivion is no hard task for a mage who knows what he's doing, there are plenty of those."

"Pocket-realm?" I asked.

"A realm not belonging to a Daedric Prince," he answered. "They lack… _'limiters'_ and are therefore easily accessed, again, to someone who knows what he's doing. It's from where most mages summon atronachs and other easily manipulated lesser creatures. But werewolves are no _lesser_ creatures, and far from easily manipulated."

"So… you can't summon werewolves?" I asked.

"Oh, no-no-no, I didn't say that," he said and waved his hand dismissively. "One can most certainly summon a werewolf, but no mage would willingly do that."

"Why?"

"You see, werewolves come from Hircine's realm—The Daedric Prince of the Hunt—and to access his realm would require… _permission_ , so to speak."

"Permission?" I asked, eyebrows going low.

He smacked his lips and sighed as he looked away to think. "You see… the reach of a daedric prince isn't limited to their physical form—that is temporary—but rather, the entirety of their realm as a whole. To access their realm would, in a sense, be to access their person, which isn't something that can be done unless they themselves allow it. So… in short… to summon a werewolf would require _allowance_ from Hircine himself, some sort of bargain would have to be made—a quid pro quo—he'd want something in return."

"Such as?"

"That I can't say, could be anything. But the price always outweighs the yield," he said with a serious look and a shake of his head. "But I can't see that being the case, to bargain with a daedric prince? No one's ever won in such a scenario, not really. Those kinds of bargains sooner or later end up with you being nothing more than their pawn. No. That kind of magic is for fools, amateurs, the insane, or the truly desperate. It's not something an adept or above mage would willingly do. Ever. You'd be far better off capturing a werewolf from the wild, the only risk in that would be death—a far better consequence than any daedra would offer."

"Speaking of which," I said as his end statement jolted another theory I had, "A teleportation spell then?" Perhaps I had been too quick to dismiss the Captain theory of a teleporting werewolf. "With the help of another—a mage—it could be done, couldn't it?"

"To teleport a werewolf? That could be done, but teleportation spells are illegal within the Empire," he said, "Other than the Synad and the Emperor's personal mages, very few have the permit to utilize them legally."

"I'm well aware," I said, "But that doesn't mean someone couldn't use them in secret."

"True," he said, "but because they are illegal they can't be learned willy-nilly—most of the literature on the subject has long since been gathered and destroyed, and further research is illegal without a lawful permit. And, again, only the special ranks of the Synad has the right to teach them to others, which, again, is under heavy supervision."

"I get it, again and again and again…" I said dismissively. Zirimir always turned too defensive when one spoke of illegal things, but then, I'm more than certain half of the books in this room consisted of illegal research… not to mention half the trinkets. But still, he had a point: the usage of illegal, hard to acquire, magic only strengthened the theory of an organization—powerful mages had to be involved. Fuck me. "Just tell me if it can be done," I said, better stick to the answerable questions before I sink too deep into the questions I can't answer. Or… don't want to answer.

"With preparations, it could be done," he said.

"With preparations," I mumbled, sinking my head forward on my fists as I looked up at him. "I am certain someone had been in Andane's room on the night he was killed, same with Mornd—and possibly Rubarb—they had both had a visitor or visitors. Let's assume the visitors summoned a werewolf and then made it disappear, how would that be done?"

"Visitors?" he asked, "Plural?"

"I'll come to that," I said, "let's focus on the summoning for now, what preparations would be needed that I can prove?"

"They'd need a werewolf for starters," he said, "held up somewhere, possibly encaged—not an easy task, but possible. As for teleporting it, there are a number of ways: most likely a mark-and-recall spell. But that's a two-stage spell that first requires placing the mark spell and then the proximity of… unless…" he drifted off.

"Unless what?" I asked.

"It's possible they placed the mark spell on the werewolf beforehand, or, to be more precise, beneath its location, and once they were in proximity of the target they worked the spell in reverse, summoning the werewolf from its cage. But that doesn't…" he scratched his chin as he looked off with a cynical look.

"But?" I asked, waiting for him to continue.

He looked back at me, still keeping a cynical look. "You said they made it disappear?"

"Yes," I said, "Whatever it was, it never broke _in_ or _out_ of the room. It was summoned there, and… de-summoned? in the same room."

"Teleported," he said in correction before humming in thought. "Had they done that, it would mean they, as well as their target, we're now in a room with a feral werewolf… the teleportation is possible, easy even, but the situation they'd now be in would be suicidal. Teleportation spells take time, and in such close proximity to a feral werewolf, I doubt there'd be enough time to cast another spell… They might have used a calm spell to buy more time, but werewolves are highly resistant to spells targeting their mind: they are surprisingly intelligent for a beast, more sentient in thought than acting on instinct alone, and simpleminded in their motive—kill. I don't think a calm spell would work on a werewolf in such circumstances, it'd be cornered and desperate. Enraged."

"How much time?" I asked, "For the teleport?"

"Ten to twenty seconds I'd say," he answered and gave me a big eye look, "which admittingly isn't long but with a werewolf within arms reach anything under three seconds wouldn't be enough time. Ten would be more than stretching it."

"They couldn't cast a mark spell on it? to make it disappear?" I asked.

"That's… not how mark spells work," he asked, shrugging back, "That would require them to leave to whatever location they wanted to recall it to before managing to teleport it back. It'd take too long, the werewolf would've fled the room to ravage the streets, or even hunted after them as they fle– unless," he suddenly shifted away, breaking away from his original thought.

"Another unless?" I asked.

"Unless they had time to make preparations inside the room… half an hour or so. But I don't think somebody who's about to be murdered would allow–"

"Andane left his house to head for the station barely an hour before he died," I said and Zirimir looked back at me with a twitch, "The culprits had him fetch something… files."

"Why didn't you say so," he said abruptly, "That definitely gave them enough time to make preparations."

"What sort of preparations?" I asked. This was beginning to sound repetitive, but at least it was moving forward.

"I'm thinking they might not have used a mark-and-recall spell, but rather, a _portal_ spell."

"I don't know what that is," I said.

"It's not a summoning spell so there's no need for a summoning specialist—anyone with the right book could manage it, really—it's a spell that binds two locations to one another through magical markings, allowing one to travel between the two. It can be done with the help of an enchanted object, but that requires activation through magic and–"

"Skip the details. Is it possible?" I asked to interrupt.

"For a werewolf?" He asked, "Not by an object, but through markings it could be done. And considering the since of a werewolf, the circle binding the area of effect would need to be large enough for it to fit inside. We're talking a circle with the diagonal of… at least the length of two men."

"How would that work?"

"It's simple. I mean, they prepare by first drawing the circle, infusing the magical patterns and symbolic calculations, and then infuse the circle itself on the floor of, for example, a cage. Place the werewolf inside said cage and the first set of preparations done."

"And then?"

"As I said, it requires two circles, this is where the second set of preparations are needed. They recreate the same circle at the second targeted location."

"In Andane's house," I said as I began to see the pattern.

"Right. It'd take time, but you already said they had time."

"So they built the circle while Andane went for the files. What then?"

" _Prepared_ it, not _built_ , but yes." he corrected, "They most likely did, and once done, all they had to do was activate it by simply pushing magic into it, takes no more than a second, and the werewolf would come through from the other end. Though…" he poked at his lip again, "the tricky part would be to get the werewolf back on the circle, for it to teleport back into its cage."

"But that would only take a second as well?" I asked. "To activate it once it stepped back onto the circle?"

"It would," he confirmed. "And not only that, there would be traces left from whatever they used to prepare the circle, possibly magical burns in its place as well. Magical residue at the least, assuming they cleaned away the drawing."

"I saw no markings on the fl–" no wait? There was a large carpet in the room, "Could it be placed beneath a carpet?" I asked, suddenly feeling oddly excited—were we finally getting somewhere?

"Certainly," he answered, "It'd be clever, even. No one would look under a carpet for such a thing, unless he knew what to look for."

Fuck me, it fits, I thought as I again leaned onto my fists.

If the culprits drew the circle underneath the carpet while Andane was out and then sat down on the couch, close enough to activate it, as Andane burned the files… then the summoned– teleported werewolf would charge for Andane the second it appeared, and once killed, the werewolf would turn back, notice them on the couch, and charge once more only to be teleported again the second it stepped back onto the carpet: the neighbour thought she heard a 'roar.' Fuck me, it all fits. But then, if it was as simple a spell as Zirimir makes it sound, would it need two men?

"Could an illusionist manage that spell?" I asked, lifting my face to look at him.

"As I said, with the right books it's child's play. That's part of why they are illegal, they're damn near impossible to invent but ridiculously easy to recreate once invented. Think of it as… inventing a brilliant dish compared to simply following a recipe, and if that recipe was placed in the hands of thieves? Assassins? Imagine the–"

"I _know_ why they're illegal," I said as he moved away from the point, "Can one man manage this?"

"Anyone with a basic understanding of magic, yes."

Hm, not enough to remove the theory of an organization, but also not enough to confirm it. But this definitely fits the method of killing, almost too damn well not to be the case—if the ¨murderweapon¨ itself had been a werewolf it only made sense that Andane suspected it on Mornd's death, and myself in turn on Andane's. The only things that had made me doubt it was the lack of a full moon and it's seemingly appearance and disappearance, but all those doubts has now been explained and answered—the lack of bite marks was never enough to rule it out, especially not now: teleported back and forth, a werewolf wouldn't have the time nor motivation to eat its prey.

"Fuck me…" I muttered into my fists before lowering my hands and straightening myself up in the chair to look at Zirimir, "I think this confirms the method of killing. It fits; the culprits are using a feral werewolf as their means of murder, by teleporting it."

"All I'm saying is that it's possible," Zirimir stated with big toughtfull eyes.

"The easiest explanations are usually the correct ones," I said, "and it's more than the fact that it fits. If the spell itself is easy, and to summon a werewolf from Oblivion is hard–

"Not hard, but dangerous and foolish unless you want to end up the puppet of a Daedric Prince," he pitted in to correct.

"Right," I said dismissively before continuing, it wasn't the important part. "then there wouldn't be the need for a Summoner to be involved, an Illusionist could manage on his own."

"You mentioned an illusionist before," he said sceptically, raising an eyebrow.

"That's the second set of questions that brought me here," I said, brushing my mustache softly with the fingertips of my left hand, "Andane's maid had no recollection of the night of his murder, neither did Mornd's wife—in fact, I believe she had woken up in her bed the day after. I had assumed the maid had experienced memory loss because of trauma, but then Mornd's wife told me she had _opened the door_ on the night of his murder, which she then, not ten seconds later, denied, as if she suddenly forgot that too. Which made me think–"

"A memory spell," he interrupted in a low voice, bringing his hand to his lips again.

"An illusionist could do that, right?" I asked, "Use magic to make someone forget? Make them sleep through the noices of a murder?"

"I…" he mumbled, squeezing his upper lip, "I'm afraid I might not be able to help you much there," he said and looked at me. "I mean… I'm more a theoretical researcher—mathematical calculations, space and time, material theorems, knowledge of that sort."

"Bullshit," I said with cynicism, "You're a scholar if anything, are you saying none of these books hold… illusion… magic… things?" I asked, gesturing over the book-cluttered room.

"I might understand the theory behind most schools of magic, but that doesn't mean I can utilize them," he said defensively, crossing his arms, " _knowing_ how to do something doesn't imply that you _can_."

"I'm not asking if _you_ can do it, I'm asking if an _illusionist_ can," I said pointedly, but he remained standing with a stern face. "Look, the more I understand how these things work the more clues I can place to the murders, the requirements and what-not, and the more clues I have the better the picture of what to look for."

"I'm not withholding information, Clyfar," he said sternly, "But I'm a loner. I have never cared much for other people, least of all how they think—psychology has never been an interest of mine, so why should I study it? Besides…" he looked over at that covered box of his, "with my research, any magic surrounding the illusion school would be _more_ than useless to me."

"Look," I said with a sigh, "I only need to know if it's possible. Nothing more."

"And I prefer not to speak of things I know are outside of my expertise," he said as he looked back at me. "Again, I'd tell you if I knew."

"¨Outside of your expertise,¨" I muttered dully and sarcastically, "As if you haven't done that before?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he snarked begrudgingly.

"Need I remind you of a certain potion you recently sold me?" I stated, and watched him fall back in line as that distinct Zirimir-insecurity resurfaced. "I thought so."

"Well. I mean… You see," he said, "Even in matters I believe myself more than adept, I occasionally fail. So what's to be expected of me if I deliberately hypothese outside my aware scope of knowledge then? I'd only set myself up for further failure."

"If not you, who then?" I sighted with surrender.

He hummed thoughtfully as he uncrossed his arms and fiddled with his fingers before turning for the table, walking over. "You should speak too Talemnion," he said as he leaned over the table, grabbed a pen and paper, and scribbled something down. "He's a… no, _the_ master wizard within the Illusion school—a Master Illusionist—top in the field. I'm sure he can answer your questions. Who knows, he might even be able to tell who's capable of doing what you're asking—give names."

"Talemnion?" I asked as I leaned forward and grabbed the piece of paper as he handed it to me—never heard of him—there was an address written down on it. "No last name?"

"Ugh," he let out and rolled his eyes, "Altmers and their damn last names."

"Altmer?" That explains it. "They use titles, right?" I said rather than asked as I rose and poked the paper down my left coat pocket.

"And the more achievements the more titles, and the more titles the longer their names," he said with lame ridicule, "And _he_ recently turned 800, so he has quite the amount of achievements. Do yourself a favor, Clyfar, and don't ask about it, you'll be stuck with him for half an hour simply to go through them all, and he'll probably give you lip all the vile for not knowing them already—he's as arrogant as Altmers come."

"I'll take your word for it." I said as I grabbed my hat. "And Zirimir?"

"Yes?" he let out.

"Those circles—used for the teleportations—what do they look like?"

"Eeeh," he let out hesitantly and looked over at some bookpiles before looking back with those big 'I don't know' eyes, feigned ignorance.

"Oh, for fucks sake," I said annoyed, "I already told you I don't care, and don't you dare tell me ' _that kind of research'_ is worthless to you."

"Alright, alright," he folded and shuffled over for the piles. It should be… in one of these books? Somewhere?" he mumbled as he began searching through them.

"Fuck me," I mumbled to myself as I watched him eye through the pages of one book before he grabbed another. Knowing Zirimir, this will take a while, so I leaned back on the table and took out my pipe and tobacco bag from the breast pocket of my coat. If we were to wait, I might as well do so puffing on the taste of vanilla. Spending the time smoking would at least make the wait feel less prolonged, less tedious, and definitely less frustrating.

I had already refilled my pipe twice, staring hollowly into the green-blue flame of a fat, short, white candle that floated, levitated, above a plate as it burned… watched the wax drip down on the plate with what felt like an eternity between every drip, until Zirimir finally let out a ¨ah, here it is¨ and relief washed over me as I straightened up and looked over at him.

"Like this," he said as if we hadn't been waiting forever and placed the open book on the table, a picture facing up. "They look like this."

"Like that!?" I snapped. "It's a fucking circle with a star and some dribles around it!"

"Excuse me," he dragged out and gave me a demeaning look. "It's an _octagram_ , not a star, and those _¨scribbles¨_ are crucial symbols for its function, essential to–"

"I don't care!" I said, "We've been waiting forever—you couldn't just have drawn me a picture? That would have worked just as fine."

"Drawn a picture?" he said flustered.

"I only need to recognise it if I saw it, not recreate it in detail."

"Then why didn't you say so?"

"Oh, fuck me," I let out and waved my arms in surrender, "Julian! get over here."

"Sir," he said as he approached.

"Put that in your memory," I said and pointed at the book with the mouth end of my pipe.

Zirimir stood with a frustrated look on his face, arms crossed, as I waited for Julian to look over the book, tapping out my pipe on the plate with the candle. Why do mages have to be so specific in everything, and so easily insulted whenever one didn't care for specifics. Well, it doesn't matter.

"You got it?" I asked as I put away my pipe.

"It's not that hard to remember, really," Julian said.

"Exactly," I snarked and gave Zirimir a dull look—he should've drawn a picture, how much time had we wasted here? "I want you to head back to Andane's place," I said and turned for Julian, "His house should still be under surveillance, someone will let you in. Check the floor in his room for any trace of that circle."

"And I'll check under the carpet," he said with a nod, catching on.

"Do the same at Mornd's place. Ask Domber to show you the room Mornd died in, I'm sure he'll comply."

"I–" he suddenly stuttered and took on a hesitant look. I knew the cause of that look.

"If _Amanette_ complains just tell her you're there on _my_ orders and if she still throws you out I'll have her arrested for obstruction of justice, if it comes to it, make sure to tell her that as well."

"I don't think I can tell her _that_ ," he squirmed.

"Yes you can," I said sternly, "You're a _City Guard_ , and she's a housewife—marrying a man of the law doesn't put her above it."

"I– I– I guess I can do it," he blurted out, nervously looking down as he folded.

"Good," I said, placing my hat on my head and gestured to the door. "Thank you for the help, Zirimir," I said and gave a nod.

"Any time, f'lah," he mumbled begrudgingly and equally sarcastically, waving his hand in a gesture as he turned away and I heard the door unlock for us.

"So," Julian said as I turned to walk past him, "a teleporting werewolf, huh?"

I stopped in my tracks beside him and turned my head, looking at him as it struck my mind.

"W– what?" he stuttered.

A teleporting werewolf, eh? When the Captain had suggested that, I had taught him a fool—a theory of pure fiction and fantasy.

"One more thing, Zirimir," I exhaled and turned back.

He sighed and turned back for me, "Yes, Sera?" he said with clear sarcasm.

"Could a werewolf change at will?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"At will. Back and forth. Anytime he wanted. Full moon or not."

"No?" he let out with squinting eyes, probably thinking me dumb. "The effect of lycanthropy is very much bound to the moon. the whole curse revolves around it. Other than feral werewolves, Secunda is absolute in the turning."

"I thought so," I said.

"I do have some books on the subject," he continued, "But…" he drifted off as he to my dismay, again, hinted toward the piles of unorganised literature. "I… I could look for them for you," he mumbled as he already seemed set.

"Oh, fuck me," I let out and turned around for the door. By the Divines, I'm not spending another eternity waiting for him to find them. Besides, I've learned all I need about werewolves, it's the _memory loss_ and Amanette's _sleep_ I need to figure out next—The Illusionist.

"It might take me a few hours, but I could send them to you?" he said behind me.

"Yeah, yeah," I said, waving my hand dismissively over my shoulder as Julian opened the door for us to leave, "You do that."

"You haven't moved, have you? Still live in–"

"The Market District, yeah."

* * *

The door locked behind us as we entered the alleyway and I corrected my hat as I looked up at the dark gray stripe of sky above us between the buildings. It had been around noon when we came here, but now the sky had taken on a darker tone. Must be well past noon by now, but the evening still looks far off. Plenty of time.

"Shouldn't that man be arrested?" Julian asked as I set to head for the street.

"What for?" I asked as I continued walking, even though I knew what he was referring to.

"I mean… isn't he a criminal?" he said, following closely behind me.

"Zirimir's only crime is being an idiot," I stated, "and if being a criminal is enough to arrest someone, half this city would be behind bars. Me included."

"You included?" Julian asked behind me.

And I stopped and turned to look at him.

"Yeah," I sighed heavily, feeling tired again as I looked at him. "I used to pick pockets as a kid, do you know why?"

"No?" he said plainly.

"Because we couldn't afford food," I said. "It was like that for most of us—my friends back then—we even beat up others, occasionally—spoiled rich kids mostly, people who looked down on us for being poor—and we searched their pockets afterward. It's not something I'm proud of now, but truth be told . . . we would've starved to death had we not done it. And that's the reality for many people in this city, it's not a choice for them—it's life or death."

"But… it's against the law," he said with a disagreeing look—a naivety I had never held, he didn't grow up the same way I did. I saw that now.

"Being a criminal doesn't make you a bad person," I said calmly, I believed it. "Same as being law-abiding doesn't make you a good one. Zirimir may be a criminal, but all he ever does is buy illegal goods off the black market and research… questionable areas of magic, and I'm pretty sure half the mages here does the same—they're no different. And Zirimir would never sell his research further—if he ever finishes it—nor does he hold the slightest of ill intent, he's not dangerous, which, in my book, makes him one of the good guys."

"But… if he sold something–" Julian started.

"He won't," I interrupted confidently, certain of the fact. "It's why he's a _Jack of all Trades_ ; the second he finds something interesting he'll get his hands full with it. All in. But the second that interest _disappears_ , he'll abandon his research without hesitation. It's no longer interesting for him. He's meddled in everything but never long enough to actually master anything—as I said, he'll never finish anything."

"But–" Julian attempted.

" _But,_ if he does . . . Zirimir is someone I can control, and if the day comes when he does step out of line, I'll be there to arrest him myself. But not until that day comes… Work long enough in this line of work and you'll come to realise that the law isn't as black and white as the papers make them out to be, in reality the law is gray, and people like _Zirimir_ are far more trustworthy than some others—especially the one's on the entirely _white_ side of the law."

"You think criminals are trustworthy?" he said. clearly disagreement.

"I'm not saying _all_ of them are—but think about it. Who's proven more helpful today; _Amanette_ —the law abiding citizen—or _Zirimir_ —the criminal?" He didn't respond. "With that in mind, I'd rather work with a criminal who's a _good_ man than a lawful _harlot_."

He kept quiet, looking down at the basket in his hands as he probably admitted to my point.

"That's another 'fine' example of the law being gray," I said. "Had a commoner treated us as Amanette did, he'd be beaten half to death before tossed in the dungeons… it's not the way things should be, but it is."

"I get it," he mumbled in a low voice. Admittingly. Still looking down.

"Good…" I said, turning to continue toward the street—we've wasted enough time here. "There's more than the _law_ at play when judging the quality of a person, Julian. Remember that."

"Yes, sir," he said as he took up the pace to follow.

I threw a look over my shoulder, once again ignoring that annoying ¨Sir¨ of his, "You know what to do?" I asked before looking back forward.

"Yes," he said, looking at me, "check for that circle at Marchog's and Esbog's place."

"And meet me by the station once you've done that, I'm off to…" –I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket and gave it a look– "meet this _Talemnion_ guy. Hopefully he'll confirm our theory."

"I'll see you at the station."

* * *

The address Zirimir had provided wasn't far away, bit over a block and a half.

I checked the paper once more, making sure I had the right address as I stood in front of the small brick-shaped building. I had expected a master-wizard—master-mage, or whatever they preferred to be called—would live in a more impressive building. But no. It was a simple square shaped building of one floor. It wasn't even that wide, two white-framed windows facing outward and a dark-blue door with the illusion school insignia marked on it in coal-black to the left of the windows.

The door was too tall to be made for a Breton, same with the windows, this building wasn't made by, or for, my kind—this must be the right place, I thought as I pocketed the note and knocked twice on the door.

I heard a sound from inside—someone yelling sharply—but I didn't make out what was said, and so I knocked once more.

Again, I heard a sharp and clearly annoyed yell from inside, followed by frustrated footsteps stomping toward the door.

"I said it's open!" he yelled angrily with a gill voice in my face the second the door opened. I had to look up as I was faced with the tall elf, "Have you no ears on you!?" he continued, even giller, staring me down in pure frustration.

Fuck me, I'll never get used to the size of Altmers, as with Varg, the top of my head barely leveled with his chest, but unlike Varg—or Nords overall—who's broad shouldered and muscular, the elf was slim and slender. Shaped like a delicate stick. Wearing light-blue fabric and gold-weave robes over a thin body.

"Talemnion, I presume?" I asked per standard, looking up to meet his eyes. Irises of gold. His aged and bushy eyebrows—shaped like the wings of an eagle—furrowed deeper on his forehead as he looked at me. As with his thinning hair, they had lost their golden youth but still held a yellow shine to them—the color of pale sunshine.

"You're late, I had expected you yesterday," he snarled, almost spat at me, as he turned in the doorway and headed inside. Hm? He neither told nor signaled for me to enter but I had the feeling that's what I should do. What he expected.

I followed inside, taken with and equal amount of confusion and suspicion at his statement. _Yesterday? Why would he expect me?_ But… when you don't have the right cards on hand, the best thing to do is hope you have them up your sleeve. Or, if not, simply pretend you do.

The first thing that hit me was the instant smell of the place: expensive perfumes and acrylic paint, flowers and plants, sweet lacquer on a white-pinted wooden floor, no wait, the floor was polished marble… then why did it smell of lacquer and wood? But the smells gave the room life—the house, life. It was… a pleasant and rich air. Oddly calming.

"You can place the payment there," he said monotonically with gust, throwing a gesture on the side table in the main entrance hall—a long hall that looked to narrow as it dug itself into the building—turning his straight back toward me as he continued down the hall.

The ceiling's surprisingly high too. Higher than it should be, judging from the outside. Or had I seen it wrong?

"The payment?" I forced my eyes from the ceiling to look down on him as he suddenly stopped and turned to face me with a sharp look.

"The _payment_ ," he repeated laggily and impatiently, "I assumed by your uniform that's why you're here?"

"No," I said, only feeling more confused.

"Then why are you here?" he asked with squinting eyes. "Who are you?"

"Clearly not who you expected," I said, turning my head to look at the paintings on the left wall of the main entrance. Two of them, on with foregn landscapes and the other one with… indescribable buildings that looked… organic? Flowing? They both looked new, recently painted I assumed—I could still smell the strong scent of paint on them.

"Clearly not," he repeated suspiciously and snapped around, "This way."

¨This way,¨ I repeated in my mind as I looked transfixed at the… odd pair of paintings: pictures of poetry and insect wings. I almost had to force myself to look away and follow down the hallway. There were more paintings mounted along the left wall as we walked, or, I say ¨more paintings¨ but it was the same two paintings from before, taking turns as we passed them—that strong smell of paint following.

"You asked for me but I don't know who you are," he said sharply as I followed in his footsteps.

There were too many strange things about this hallway as we walked. First off, it was too long to fit the house I had seen from the outside, and his footsteps—when I had first heard him approach—hadn't sounded as if he had walked this far. Not to mention the two repeating paintings on my left and, as I noted earlier, the entire hallway looked to narrow before us… to grow smaller—but as we walked it always remained the same size around us. The wallpapers?

"This hallway?" I asked confused, "It's… an optical illusion, isn't it? That's why you're using the same two paintings, and the wallpapers are making it look to narrow in the distance."

"Hmm?" he let out and glanced down at me from over his high shoulder before looking back forward. "I am surprised to learn you know what an _optical illusion_ is at all," he stated blatantly.

"It's something that seems to be different from what it really is. Something that… looks to bend reality even though it doesn't," I said. "Like this hallway."

"I suppose that's as accurate an explanation as one could expect," he stated demeaningly. "So tell me then, what is _reality_ if it can be contorted by something so simple as patterned walls? The repetition of art-work?"

"Reality?" I gave his neck a confused look. "Reality is reality? Isn't it?" I said only to hear him snark. "The things we _know_ to be real."

"And how does one _know_ to separate that which is real from that which isn't?" he asked with a snarky tone, stopping to look at me over his shoulder once more as he turned. He looked both anticipating and judgemental at the same time as he stared down at me with thin pressed eyes—made me feel unnerved. "How is it you _know_ the optical illusion of this corridor _isn't_ real?" he added to my confusion.

"Because… common sense tells me it can't be? And as we're walking through it–"

"¨Common sense,¨" he mimicked unimpressed, "Does your _eyes_ know the corridor isn't narrowing?"

"No?…" I let out, getting more confused, "My eyes are telling me the corridor _is_ narrowing."

"So it is your _mind_ that is correcting your view of reality when your _eyes_ are being deceived of it, is that so?" he poked.

Fuck me, "I . . . suppose?"

"If that is so, and your mind is correcting as your eyes are being deceived? Then how is it you know reality exists _outside_ of your mind at all?"

"I…" I started, but suddenly felt at a loss of words—the logic of that philosophy was…

" _Reality_ is an _illusion_. _Nothing_ is real," he stated slowly, clearly, and blatantly with a narrow, studying, eyes. "Tell me, do you know how it is we can _see_? That we can observe _colors_?"

"With our eyes?" I said, feeling I had the wrong answer even before he snarked, "and things have colors, don't they?"

"It's all _light_ ," he said sharply in correction. "To put it as simple as I believe the ability of your intellect to manage: When light hits an object most of it reflects off of said object, and _some_ of that light doesn't. The reflected light in turn reaches our eyes and our eyes send signals to our mind, which in turn translates the amount of signals as different colors in order for you to ¨comprehend¨ reality. That we can observe different colors is nothing more than our mind playing _tricks_ on us in an attempt to interpret the amount of light existing in a reality that it can not perceive nor understand. _In_ reality, there are no colors. Only **more** or **less** light."

And I thought Zirimir had me confused when he spoke of roses.

"The same goes with sounds," he continued, "They do not exist. Sounds are in _reality_ nothing more than vibrations in the air that our eardrums exist to measure, and once measured, they too send signals to our mind which, again, translates the amount of signals into ¨noises,¨ the things we ¨hear,¨ that we can understand and interpret them as sounds: music, speech, etcetera. They, too, do not exist."

"I… I'm confused," I admitted.

"Bah!" he let out, "And here I was under the impression you Breton Officers were educated—so much for sophistication. Put bluntly, our _senses_ only exist to _measure_ reality, whereas our mind works to use said _measurements_ to _interpret_ , _assess_ , and _draw a conclusion_ that aids the individual in perceiving reality to such a degree as to manage survival within it."

"I'm… not… the typical officer," I managed out—roses indeed. "But… you're saying colors don't exist?" I still felt none the wiser.

"Nor. Do. _Sounds_ ," he added, "All created in the mind—illusions necessary for survival. So I ask again, how is it you know reality exists _outside of your mind_ , if all you see and hear is nothing more than conjurations from your subconscious, created to interpret that which you cannot perceive nor understand from an out-of-mind point of view?"

"I… suppose I can't know," I said, _still_ feeling none the wiser. Actually, I felt more lost than ever—this is some philosophy, far beyond me.

"As I said," he continued and turned around to continue down the hall, " _Reality_ , as you see it, is an _illusion_."

Fuck me, I took up the pace to hurry after him—damn the long legs of an Altmer—is that the mindset of a Master Illusionist? Perhaps it's a topic I shouldn't spend too much time thinking on, sounds like the doorstep to insanity to me. But then, have I ever met a mage I'd call sane?

"Here we are," he said and opened the door as we finally reached the end of the long hallway.

I gave the paintings on my left one last look—smelled the acryl—and followed him through.

Fuck me once more, my mind hastely went as we entered the room and I looked around… and up: a massive circular chamber, the brick-shaped building I had seen from outside could fit in this champer two times over, and the ceiling was at least three floors above us—it shouldn't be… this made no sense, the house couldn't be this large, not to mention the distance we've walked. Even if the corridor had led out into the next house behind it, that house too couldn't possibly hold this chamber within it. Could it? This… made no sense.

I stood in awe as I looked up at a massive golden chandelier, more candles than I could count burned mounted on it and lit up the room. The walls around us looked… otherworldly. I couldn't tell if they were made of white-gold or crystal, they had an unnatural shine to them; they glowed and flickered like sunshine breaking through water. But they were not see-through.

"You have yet to tell to what purpose you are here." I heard him say as I stood transfixed, lost in the marvel of this hall.

"About that…" I mumbled as I again had to force myself to look down and away from the impressive above. First now, finally looking down, did I notice, the large circular room had doors all around—eight of them—and to my surprise, almost startling me, there were two easels directly to my left holding the same two paintings that had covered the left wall of the corridor. "…Just… just who had you been expecting?" I almost subconsciously mumbled as I almost turned captive by them—the exact two paintings: one with foregn landscapes and the other… a city of poetry and insect wings—I could smell the paint on these ones too.

"My payment, of course," he stated monotony and equally annoyed, "For my services."

"And… what ¨services¨ would that be?" I asked, so confused that I could feel my eyebrows dig wrinkles into the bone of my forehead as I turned away from the two paintings to find him standing by the rightmost door.

He looked at me with squinted, narrow, eyes: either studying me, or judging me. "Payment for my aid with the recent _murder_ as well as _materia_?" he stated, "I assume that is why you are here? I had expected a simple _guard_ to manage the grunt work, but a _lieutenant_ from the City Guards? Are you not? You _are_ wearing the same uniform as the last."

"The last?" I asked. Fuck me, what's going on? Aid with the murder? I've felt nothing but confusion since I entered this place, but now? Fuck me.

"He had a nobles' name," he said, eyes still as sharp and narrow on me. " _'Knight_ ,' I believe. Or something similar."

"Knight?" I repeated in question before it hit me, "You mean _Marchog_?"

"Perhaps," he stated and straightened up, almost defensively. "And no 'galiant knight' he was—used the influence of his _father's_ name to enter my abode—not the act of any self respecting individual. More of a _vermin_ than a _knight_ , I say." He actually sounded pissed, no, _insulted_ at the last two statements. But then, that's the main reason Altmers don't use family names—no reputation to fall back on but our own. But that's not important:

"Andane Marchog was here?" I said in a single exhale, no longer feeling my eyebrows dig into my forehead, no, they stood as open in surprise as my eyes were. But why– and how– Screw it—I'll take blind luck over good detective work any time of the day.

"Last Turdas, I believe. Afternoon." he looked to the side with a thoughtful look, stroking his sharp, pointy, chin with his hand, "Or was it Fredas afternoon?" he mumbled to himself, "Yes, Fredas."

Last Fredas afternoon? Fuck me; the day after Andane had re-visited Amanette; two days before his death. That _cannot_ be a coincidence.

"What did he want?" I said, "Why did he come to visit you?"

He slowly removed his hand from his chin and turned his head to look over at me, eyes growing thinner and sharper as he again looked me over. "I refuse to answer any further questions before you tell me why you're here and who you are," he stated singularly.

Fair enough, "I'm investigating the murders of Andane Marchog, Mornd Esbog, and Rubarb Castell. And you just explicitly told me Andane was here two days before he died, no doubt investigating Mornd's murder. That's why I'm here."

"Hm," he let out unaffected,."So he is dead?" he continued just as unaffected—it rubbed me the wrong way.

"He is," I stated, "Murdered in his own home, as was the man _he_ investigated. So I ask again, why did he come here?"

"You've yet to give me your name," he said blatantly, looking down on me with suspicion from his tall and slender elven build.

"My apologies," I said, realizing he was right—not a habit I usually had, forgetting to introduce myself. "I forgot, I got distracted by your…"—how should I put this? Could I even call it that?—"…your home?"

"Your name?" he repeated impatiently and… with an oddly hostile tone.

"Clyfar Werinwr," I answered as I turned back to meet his narrow and suspicious eyes.

Why did this… feel wrong?

" _¨Clyfar_ Werinwr?!¨" he repeated skeptically, "I doubt that," he continued slowly, exaggerating the syllables, and turned around toward the door he stood by.

"Excuse me?" I said in reaction to his latter comment.

"ClyfarWerinwr?" he repeated again with a snark over his shoulder. "It means _'Clever Pawn,_ ' does it not? That is, if I remember that old Breton dialect of yours correctly?"

"I… Yes," I said, surprised he knew that—but he had called Marchog 'Knight' as well.

"Hm," he let out sharply, "I assume your parents attempted to make up for that _mockery_ of a last name of yours?" he said as he reached for the handle to open the door.

" _A_ parent" I said in correction—even in my mind I refuse to hint at the thought that my father took any part in my uprising. At least not where it mattered.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he snarked from a distance, holding it open as he stood impatiently. "In here," he said, gesturing with one hand and eyebrows so stern they might as well have been my fathers—needless to say, I reluctantly walked to enter.

Fuck me.

Even before I walked through the doorway I noticed the bright light from inside, flowing out of the door in the sways of a silk curtain. A warm golden-yellow light welcomed me, and as I entered the brightly lit room, I couldn't help but to look around: a wide room section of the house, drawing out to my left. There was a long table facing away from me that way—a six chaired table—placed, not against the wall, but in the center of the left side of the room. Shelves with glassed over frames showing expensive silverware and cutlery, A fireplace on the far end. To my right—fuck me—the same two paintings as before, Talemnion clearly had a specific taste in wall-decor.

But none of that drew in my attention as much as the windows did.

The windows.

Again, I felt perplexed. Three tall windows along the wall in front of me, strong, and bright, sunshine came through. Sunshine? Shining.

But… it's cloudy outside? There shouldn't be any sunshine today—hasn't been for… fuck me, more than half the summer..

I slowly walked over to the closest window in front of me, placed my hand against the cold glass and looked outside: I saw… the sea? _A_ sea.

Fuuuck… Me.

A silky, glittering, smooth, white-sand beach stretched from left to right as far as I could tilt my head to see. And the ocean stretched in front of me as far as the horizon dared to stretch, with a crystal blue cloudless sky sparkling above it. The sun was so bright it almost made me tear up. I could even hear the waves softly rolling onto the beach. Murmuring. Foaming. The birds in the sky, seagulls. The view was… beyond beautiful. Beyond magical. The colors were all… too vivid to be real.

Again… fuck me… this made no sense—we're in the middle of the city—and even through some kind of magic, this isn't the Iliac bay. It can't be? But that, too, shouldn't be visible from here? Zirimir's talk of portal spells? Could that be the explanation? Am I still in Wayrest? Am I still in high Rock? I can't be? Not with a view like this.

"This… This is…" I mumbled, lacking the words.

"A mirage," he said plainly behind me. "You are now in the domain of an illusionist—why should I be forced to watch reality when I can choose to watch whatever I wish to see?"

I turned my head to look back at him as he closed the door, my hand still on the window, "This… this isn't real?" I asked.

"Nothing is real!" he spat, "Did I not tell you? Are you daft? It is the illusion of a picture, nothing more! Can't you feel it?"

"A picture?" I asked, looking back out the window, tilting my head left and right to see the depth.¨Can't you feel it?¨ true, I _saw_ the sun yet the glass was cold, and the sunshine didn't warm my face. "But… But it moves? I mean… the waves? I can see the dept. The birds? And when I move my head–"

"Who said pictures couldn't move? Have depth?" he snarled as he walked up beside me to watch out the window as well. " _This_ is, or _was,_ the view out of my childhood room back in the Summerset Isles. I always kept it in memory, and so I keep it wherever I go. The only thing I need is a _frame_ and I'll have it in all that it is… and was, 687 years ago."

He lifted his hand in front of him—reached for the window without touching it—stretched out and rounded his long thin fingers toward the illusion, and turned his hand as if he turned an invisible doorknob.

Instantly and suddenly the sun raced across the sky, hurrying off to set beneath the right shore-line and the sky turned yellow, red, violette, purple, and black. And as the sky turned black the darkness of night filled the room behind us, but back in the window, the moon suddenly poked up to rise on the left side, and a shining silver-white light lit into the room as it, as the sun had, raced up and across the black sky, stars formed behind it in its path and spread out and multiplied over the sky as the full moon settled at its peak.

I stood benumbed, staring out into the sudden magical night. The star sparkled and twinkled. Diamonds in the sky. The full moon shone, a large plate of silver facing toward us, and the sea reflected both stars and moon like a mirror. The seagulls were gone, but something large, massive, and slow moved in the distant water, softly broke the surface as it cruised the mirror. A whale? Something else? I? It was all majestic… I lacked words.

"I've…" I mumbled. Staring out the window. My hand, still on the cold glass. "I've never seen anything like this."

I suddenly felt a 'tap' against the back of my head and my vision went flickering and blurred. My senses went numb and it felt as if my brain was being dragged straight out of the back of my skull. A feeling of nausea washed coldly over me and I felt like boh vomiting and collapsing, but all of that dispersed and disappeared as quickly as it had happened.

"What did you!–" I let out, grabbing the back of my head with my hand as I snapped around, but the sentence stopped in my mouth as I faced the room, "–do?"

My hand slowly dropped from the back of my head and down my neck—it wasn't the same room. Everything had changed.

The room was smaller. Still rectangular. But smaller. The door from where we had entered was gone, replaced by simple woodwork walls of Breton design—shelves with kitchenware against it, but no longer that of expense, but cheap wooden plates, and cutlery made out of simple iron. There was a small kitchen in the right corner of the room, smaller than my own, and an old round wooden table for two against the side window. A side window that earlier hadn't been there. The large six chaired table, the one I had seen upon entering, was gone. Replaced by a… couch? A couch with neither back- nor arm-rests, and to my shock, a man was lying on it. Seemingly asleep. An imperial soldier. How… was he there? The floor was dark hardwood, no longer polished white marble—the smell of lacquer suddenly made sense to me. And all the bright light was gone, replaced by the dull, gray, light of a moody sky that dimmed through the two whiteframed windows on my right. A simple bed at the far right corner past them.

I looked to my side, my left, and was faced with the same two paintings mounted on easels… the only two paintings in the room. But now, one of them was incomplete—the one of poetry and insect wings—and the paint was still wet on it, smelling strongly of fresh acrylic paint. I looked over my shoulder at the window behind me, but it, too, was gone—replaced by a blue door with the illusion insignia painted on it in black. The same door I had first knocked on. Fuck… me?

"What…" I let out, drawing my eyes over the room to find Talemnion, sitting on a small stool next to the sleeping soldier, looking down on him as he firmly held his large thin-fingered hand over his forehead. Talemnion's clothes were different too—a simple tan-colored mage robe. "…did you do?"

"Dispelled the illusion, of course," he stated matter-of-factly without taking his eyes from the soldier.

"The illusion?" I asked in a low voice, looking around in pure dumbfuddelement. By the Divines? What in Oblivion?

"The _illusion_!" he repeated laggily, lifting his head to give me an obvious look.

"The illusion?" I repeated again, attempting to make sense of it all. To no success, "None of that was real?"

" **Nothing**! Is! real!" he spat in pure frustration, "I believe I made that clear for you earlier?"

"But… the hallway we walked through? The large hall with the doors? I saw them? We–"

"That's strange," he said in a sarcastic tone with sharp eyes, head leaning back, "I seem to have a faint memory of recently educating you in the matter that what you _see_ and what you _hear_ is irrelevant to that which is real. What has you fooled that what you _feel_ and how you _move_ is to be any _different_?!"

"I– That was all an illusion?" I said, for some reason pointing at the floor as I looked at him, "That wasn't real?"

" **Reality** is an illusion! **Nothing** is real! Must I repeat myself?!" He snapped, taking his hand off the soldiers forehead as he straightened up and his golden skin almost took on a pink-red hue of anger as he glared at me with pure disdain and annoyance. "I see now the _irony_ of your name," he said monotonically.

Fuck me, I thought. "The irony?"

" _Clever_ Pawn," he said, "When there's _clearly_ nothing _clever_ about you."

Fuck me, I've been called many things in my time, but never dumb—but Zirimir did tell me he was an arrogant fuck, still, it almost felt justified: I'd lie if I didn't admitt I felt dumb in his precence. And utterly lost.

"Fine," he snarled at my silence, putting his hand back on the soldiers forehead, "I'll tell you, but only because your ignorance annoys me." he mumbled as he looked back down on the soldier. "What if I told you you've been walking in the same spot since you entered, would you believe me?"

"I…" I started, looking to the paintings to my left. That… would actually explain how they had always been by my side as we had moved—as well as the constant smell of paint, and the floor—I looked down—the smell of wood and lacquer even though the floor had earlier been marble. "I actually would," I said, still, the feeling of confusion held me: I've never experienced anything like this. "But how? You never… cast a spell on me?"

"My _door_ ," he said and threw a casual gesture at it behind me, "Did you not see the insignia?"

"The illusion mark?" I asked as I looked behind me, noticing tiny symbols and markings in the circle around it.

"Quite so," he said, "Anyone who touches it falls within my domain, inside and out."

"Inside and out?" I repeated. "Does that mean?"

"Then let me ask you…" he continued and gazed suspiciously at me without lifting his head, "Are you confident enough in your view of reality to state that you've yet to enter my home?"

Haven't I? "You said you dispelled the illusion."

"And you believe me?" he said with a glance, "What if I only added another layer to the illusion?"

"I don't?…" I said, but honestly, now, I didn't feel certain of anything… if nothing is real? Well screw this, this elf's had the upper hand since the moment he opened the door—time to change that. "No, this is real," I said, looking over at him with an attempt at confidence. "This room fits the house I saw from the outside, before I touched your door, not to mention the paintings… " –I threw a look and gestured at them– "this one's still wet, and I could smell it beside me the entire time no matter where we moved—the smell of wood as well, even though your illusion held no wood whatsoever. Your illusion never affected my sense of smell."

"And what if that was intentional?" he uttered.

"If that was intentional, you only did it to see if I would notice it sooner."

"Yet you didn't," he stated equally indifferent and unimpressed.

"But I do now, you also referred to it as your ¨domain,¨ this was the first time you called it ¨home,¨" I said, ignoring his comment, "It was only a 'domain' while I was under the spell, but not anymore… now you called it your home."

"Hm," he let out, looking up at me, "Interesting. You have a sharper sense of questioning details in _speech_ than the _visual_."

"I suppose," I said, "After all, I'm trying to solve a murder—I need to trust my eyes, but I can't trust people."

"And so you question what they _say_ , but not what you _see_?" he stated more than asked.

"I have to," I said, "People lie, my eyes don't."

"Until now," he reminded with a spark in his eyes. He didn't show it, but I was sure he took pride in fooling me.

"Speaking of which," I said, turning my attention to the unconscious soldier on the couch.

"Don't mind him," he said, "He won't wake up no matter how much noise you make."

"Won't wake up?" I questioned, "He's under a sleeping spell, isn't he?"

"A simple one," he answered uncaringly, again looking down at the man as he softly pressed his hand against his forehead.

"That's what I suspected," I said—this couldn't be a coincidence. "And… what is it you're doing?"

He glanced over at me, again, without moving his head, "Treating mental trauma. From the war," he stated as if it'd explain things. It didn't. "I am _extracting memories_ ," he continued at my prolonged silence.

"Extracting memories?" Again, this can not be a coincidence—what are the odds that _both_ the kind of spells I came here to ask about would show themselves? And the fact that Andane had come here after his visit with Amanette? No, these were no mere coincidences—can't be.

"As I said," he continued, "trauma from the war. The easiest way to get rid of it is to remove the memories that caused it," –he looked over at me– "it's what I do for a living. It is extremely time consuming and does not, admittedly, pay all that well. But since my home can look however I want it too I never did need something expensive in the first place, nor something permanent—I tend to move around a lot—no more than fifty years in one place. I find the need for a new scenery… necessary for my sanity."

"How time consuming?" I asked—exactly why had Andane come here? Could it be that Talemnion is involved?

"Depends," he said with that monotone voice of his, turning his focus back to the soldier. "Most soldiers have _years_ of memories I have to go through. To _find_ the traumatizing ones, mark them, and then remove them can take me years as well, months at the best."

"How about the memories of a single evening?" My suspicion only grew.

"Hours, at the most," he stated, "depends on the willingness of the subject as well as the details of said evening."

Hours? Considering Andane had run to the station on the night of his murder, that's enough time to work the maid. Amanette too. No, these are no coincidence.

"Where were you last Sundas night?" I asked, my suspicion felt certain—Talemnion has some play in this, I'm sure if it.

I felt the need to put my hand on my sword, but didn't. Not yet.

He looked up at me, glanced with suspicion from low eyebrows, "Am _I_ a suspect?" he asked with an indifferent tone.

"Two persons involved in the murders very likely had their _memories altered_ , and one of them even _slept_ through the night of a murder. I don't think it's a coincidence that I've now been presented with the very two spells I came here to investigate. Spells used in the murder of both Andane Marchog and Mornd Esbog, neither do I believe it a coincident that Andane was murdered not two days after visiting you."

"You are kidding me," he said lazily and doubtfully. Still, something about how he looked at me only made me feel more certain—and definitely more unnerved.

"Not to mention you've barely cooperated since I got here—even put me under a spell the moment I entered—and you still haven't told me the reason Andane came here. Even _you_ have to admit you've been acting suspicious, and now? You clearly have the _skills_ and _knowledge_ needed to be involved in the murders."

"Are you serious?" He took his hand off the soldier's forehead and straightened up to give me a dark glare, looking more surprised than insulted. "You're accusing _me_ of acting suspicious?"

"Why shouldn't I?" I asked, loosely crossing my arms over my chest so my right hand discreetly got closer to the hilt of my blade.

" _You_ , whom I have never met, show up at _my_ doorstep mere days after I was questioned last, and refuse to introduce yourself not once, not twice, but _three_ times? Acting as if you know things you clearly did not in order to force your way into my home? Yet _I_ am the one acting suspicious?" The golden skin on his face took on a redder tint as insult induced anger grew in him, yet his voice had remained utterly calm..

"I never forced my way in, you let me in."

"Dressed as an officer of the law, what option did I have but to let you in?!" he stated, still surprisingly calm for his angered state, "Do you believe it a coincidence that _you_ were the first to mention Marchog's name? A coincidence that the hallway was only so long as for you to talk? Long enough to give me a read on your person? A coincidence that I only let you into _this_ room once you stated your business here? Do you believe it a coincidence that I only dispelled the illusion once I was _certain_ you were who you said you were?! No!" he said out loud, "I was _testing_ you for information until I knew your purpose here was _trustworthy_. I may have acted suspicious toward you at first, but that was only for the sake of my own self preservation! Yet _you_ accuse _me_ of acting suspicious?!"

Testing me? If that was true it would explain all the suspicious looks he had given me up to now. But why? "Then convince me why I shouldn't hold you in suspicion—why did Andane Marchog come here?" I said, menaly preparing to draw my sword if he showed any sign of actual danger.

"Bah!" he let out, "I'll tell you the same thing I told the last one, A _vampire_ did it."

"A vampire?" I repeated doubtfully. Skepticaly.

"Why do you think I added _sunshine_ to my illusion?" He stated and the anger on his face soothed, "Even if it was fake, I needed to see if you would shy _away_ from it, see if it'd make you cautious or nervous. Only once you didn't react negatively to it, did I dispel the illusion."

"You…" Whait, what? "You thought I was a vampire?"

"As I said, I was cautious for my own _self preservation_ ," he said, "You told me yourself, Marchog died two days after his visit here, how was I to know you're not the vampire coming here to tie up loose ends?"

If that's his trail of thought, his suspicion toward me made sense. But still, can I believe him? "A vampire?" I mumbled, relaxing as much as I dares as I thought it over. "No, that doesn't fit. Not with anything I've learned."

"Believe me," he said, throwing me a look, "When Marchog came here he had the same questions you have: questions of sleeping spells and altered memories. So to save time, I took a look at his memories—It's a vampire you're searching for."

"I don't see it," I said, "None of the victims had their blood drained nor did they have any bitemarks, and vampires don't have claws."

"Well _that!_ Simply! Isn't, _entirely_ , true," he stated certain. Certain enough to almost make me believe him.

"It isn't?"

"Hm!" he let out and relaxed back onto his stool. "I can't believe I'm having the same conversation again . . . Tell me, what do you know of _pure-blood_ vampires?" he asked.

"Never heard of them," I said plainly, still feeling skeptical. "Aren't they the same as any other vampire?"

"No…" he sated, "and few have. _Pure-blooded vampires_ , also referred to as _Vampire Lords_. They're the first generation of vampires, cursed into existence by _Molag Bal_ himself, first recorded in the Second Era, but they possibly existed before that—who knows."

"Molag Bal? The Daedric Prince?"

"Indeed," he said, "Superior to the more common vampire who pale in comparison to these blood-sucking creatures of the night. Like them, they are close to imortal, but unlike them, they're ancient, highly intelligent, and powerful beyond belief. Few have ever been recorded to exist, and even fewer have faced one and lived."

"And they have claws?"

"Certainly so," he said, "Though not in their usual form."

"Their usual form?"

"As I'm certain you know, vampires have quit the elven, or human, appearance, depending on origin of race. Their appearance are, in fact, so similar to their original selves that it can be close to impossible to recognise one by sight alone—even family members have been known not to notice the change in their fellow home mates. Their true _undead_ appearance only makes itself known by starvation of blood—pale and sunken skin, an unnatural red hungry gleam in their eyes, growing fangs—yet, furthermore, many of them possess the ability to shapeshift at will. The common ones rarely possess any stronger ability of shapeshifting than showing what they truly are, but a few stronger ones have been recorded to change into, for example, that of a swarm of bats, or even mist."

"But not pure-bloods?" I asked, feeling where he was going.

"No," he said in confirmation, "The pure-blooded vampires have been recorded to take on more than that, beastial forms at will. Towering humanoid creatures, easily twice your size, as they sprout wings and their nails grow into claws, fangs the size of thumbs. Unnatural and fierce, creatures possessing extreme physical strength as they take on a form of horror said to induce fear in even the most strong willed of men."

"Twice my size?" I asked, "as large as a werewolf?"

"I'd say werewolves are larger—more muscular and bulkier for sure—and the size of a pure-blooded vampire in beast form has been known to vary from race to race, but they all have one thing in common; they stand about half the size taller of their original self."

This… actually could fit, I thought as I pulled at my soul patch in thought. But does it fit better than a werewolf? "Are they strong enough to crush a man's head?" I asked.

"Certainly," he said and glanced at me. "I'd even say a common vampire would have enough strength for that. Beast form or not."

"And they have claws on their hind legs? Or feet?" The marks on the floor at Andane's house?

"As I said, all nails turn into claws."

"And they're _sentient_ in this form?" The statement of the Coroner.

"As sentient as you or I."

"Hm," I let out. Perhaps it did fit better than a werewolf? It'd at least be in more control—fully aware of its actions—and if it's highly intelligent it'd have the brains for it. "But still…" I continued mumbeling, "that doesn't explain the memory loss of the maid and Amanette, nor the sleeping spell on her. Unless the vampire knows illusion magic?" I said, looking at Talemnion.

"That's the thing," he said plainly, "Even though most vampires are naturally adept at illusion magic, it wouldn't have to be."

"How so?"

"Tell me, have you ever heard of the phenomenon: The Vampires Charm?" he asked with a sly look.

"No," I said, "What's that?"

"Powerful compulsion magic," he stated, "The grandest gift that Molag Bal bestowed upon his creation, the ability to _dominate_ and _enslave_ all lesser beings. Fitting, don't you think, being the Daedric Prince of domination, rape, and enslavement?"

"Compulsion magic?"

"Indeed," he continued, "And it's discreet too, all it takes is eye contact and you'd be under the vampire's charm."

"It wouldn't need to throw an active spell?"

"Not at all, you could lock eyes with a vampire across the street and you'd be under it's mercy and none the wiser."

"How exactly does it work?"

"Hard to say, lacking any experience on my own, but the subject would be compelled to do the vampires every bidding, and they wouldn't be able to refuse in the slightest. It could ask them to undress, to follow them into a dark corner, to lead them to their homes, and they'd comply without question. Enthralled."

"But if the maid and Amanette lived through such a meeting? Wouldn't they be able to tell–"

"Not at all," he interrupted before I could finnish my question. "Once the charm wears off, they'd have no recollection of the event. As I said, they'd be none the wiser."

"No memories?" I asked.

"From what I've read, it'd be experienced as waking up from a bad dream," he said, "Ever had that feeling when you wake up that you'd dreamt something you should remember, but don't, and no matter how hard you try to remember it you simply can't place your finger on it? On the top of your tongue?"

¨Can't place your finger on it?¨ The way the maid and Amanette had behaved when trying to recall the nights. It fits—frighteningly so. Could a vampire truly be behind this?

"And Andane believed you when he was here?"

"It was his memories that made _me_ believe it," he stated matter-of-factly, but he didn't answer my question, something he seemed to notice as he looked at me, "But yes," he said, "He believed it, made him quite frightened too, rightfully so—it's why I sold him the knife."

"The knife?"

"The _materia_ I mentioned earlier, for which I've yet to be paid," he said with a snarky tone. "I also gave him an amulet of Stendarr to ward off the unholy—though I've never been one to put much faith in the Divines."

An amulet of Stendarr and a knife? "A decorated _silver_ knife?" I asked—the one Julian found at the crime scene.

"Indeed," he said, "For his own protection—silver nullifies the enhanced regenerative abilities of most unholy and undead creatures, vampires included. It was quite the expensive one too, silver isn't commonly used in weaponry, and so they are rare, custom made, and often ceremonial."

Fuck me. If it wasn't confirmed earlier, it most certainly is now—Andane was here, asking the same questions I had. It actually made sense that he had come here, Andane's more influential than I've ever been, knows more names, and if not him, his father certainly does—Talemnion said it himself: ¨Used his fathers name.¨

The theory of a vampire—a Vampire Lord—actually fits: The vampire charm; the memory losses; Amanetted sleep; The method of the murders; The claws? Everything. It all fits. Even the part with Andane running to the station: the receptionist stated he ¨hadn't flirted¨ with her, if he was under the vampire's charm he'd act according to his compulsion—get the files and return—he wouldn't have acted his natural self.

Speaking of the case files, the burnt paper scraps? The burnt ¨ _Van,_ ¨ the ¨ _n_ ¨ had been burnt in the middle, maybe it wasn't an **n** at all, but an **m**? Vam- _pire?_ The other one too, the one I threw at Julian, a word ending in ¨ _arm,_ ¨ _ch-_ arm?

Fuck me, it all fits. It all makes sense. But I still can't see why? What's the motive? The conspiracy—would a vampire cooperate with mages? No, there's no longer any need for mages to be involved in this. A sole culprit. Besides, why kill them? If a vampire aimed to disrupt the political balance of the city, take over, wouldn't it make more sense for it to turn them into vampires? To gather allies? Or to simply keep them under the charm?

"Say I believe you," I almost stuttered, feeling cold at the thought—this was the stuff of nightmares—as I pulled myself out of them. "But why would a vampire go after District Lieutenants?"

"I can answer that too," he stated casually, looking up from the soldier to meet my eyes, "It _wouldn't_."

Well… that's not helpful. Confusing even.

"As powerful and dangerous as vampires are they are ultimately rare, and shy—Vampire Lords most of all," he continued. "Their greatest strength is their ability to blend in with society, to hide in plain sight. If a vampire has taken residence in this city the last thing it would do is draw attention to itself, powerful as they may be they'd still not be a match against the population of a city that had turned against them—a small militia of twenty might actually take one down, though not without heavy casualties. Which is why it'd also be very careful with who it decides to feed on—most likely going after the homeless or other unmentionables. Individuals that could disappear without anyone giving it any extra thought. The only reason it'd go after such a high-risk target as District Lieutenants would be–"

"If it had been made," I interrupted hastily as the thought hit me, "none of the victims had been fed on, it didn't kill them to feed but to cover up it's tracks?" That was also one of our theories, one I now felt also made more sense. No, it wasn't a feeling anymore. "Rubarb Castell, the first victim, was found _outside_ of city walls—the perfect place to feed—what if he witnessed the vampire feeding on someone?"

Fuck me, it's all making sense! All of it—it's flawless—and it's no longer just a feeling, it's… I'm certain of it, it's a vampire, and now I know why.

I actually felt… excited?

"Hm," he let out, giving me a strong look, "Perhaps I was mistaken," he continued to mumble in a low voice, "perhaps you're a _bit_ clever after all—though it makes me wonder, who's _pawn_ are you?"

"No one's…" I turned around as I felt the need to leave—I need to get back to the station, now! Fuck me, I have it now, all of it: Rubarb; Mornd; Andane; the culprit; the motive; the method; why it looked like a werewolf attack; the memory losses; even the two weeks between now made sense to me. "It's just a name," I blurred out, reaching for the door before twitching back, stopping myself from touching it. "Could you…" I said, looking over my shoulder at Talemnion, "Could you open the door for me?"

"Certainly," he said nonchalantly without looking back as he threw a gesture with his hand and the door sprung open. "But I expect to be paid this time!"

"I'll send someone."

* * *

"Gather everyone!" I almost shouted at the receptionist—looking up at me with a confused look—as I rushed into the station, "Everyone who's involved in my case, have them come to the meeting room right away," I added to explain as I rushed past her, "And the _Captain_!" I shouted over my shoulder, "He'll need to hear this!"

Fuck me—the excitement—I have it all, I thought as I rushed down the corridor only to halfway down meet just the man I wanted to see.

"Sir–"

"Julian!" I quickly interrupted before he could continue, "Let me guess, no magical markings?"

"I–" he stuttered, taken back by my enthusiasm, "No. Not that I could find, and I loo–"

"Excellent, follow me," I interrupted again and rushed past him, only adding more layers to his confusion—little did he know the lack of markings only strengthened my own theory—no mages were involved.

"Help me clean this," I said out loud as we entered the meeting room and I hurried up to the blackboard, grabbed a dry rag, and began to enthusiastically wipe away whatever was already written on it.

"What are we doing?" Julian asked confused, as he walked up to help me wipe the board clean.

"We're making a _timeline_ ," I said, eyes forward as I wiped.

"A timeline?"

"It'll be easier to explain once I'm done," I said rapidly, reached for the white crayon and began to draw and write. "Just sit down and wait for now."

I was so caught up in my thoughts and work as I wrote on the blackboard that I hardly noticed the men entering behind me, the sounds of chairs being moved as they found seats. Someone coughed once, a few of them chattered: asking questions between one another in confused voices—why are we here? what's going on?

But none of that distracted me now. _Could_ distract me now. It felt as if my hand moved on its own over the blackboard—drawing lines, bad pictures, writing down names, dates… Until I finally put down the crayon.

Fuck me, I though in excitement as I stepped back and admired what I had created. I wasn't sure it made sense to the others, but to _me_ it all made sense. Yes, it _all_ made sense now. Ever. Single. Detail. And, fuck me, it fits.

"Why are we here, Clyfar?" A familiar old voice said behind me—the Captain. How long had _he_ been here?

I was surprised as I turned around—almost two dozen guards had been squeezed into the room, more than I had expected. So these are everyone who knows the truth about the other lieutenants? Those who're not under the geas of the Captain's cover-up.

I recognized a few of them—faces I had seen outside Andane's house on the night of his murder—but the others? Probably those who had worked under Andane on the night of Mornd, and under Mornd on the night of Rubarb.

"I know who did it," I said enthusiastically, setting my attention on the Captain as he stood by the edge of the second row of chairs, puffing on his pipe, "Well… I don't know _who_ ," I quickly corrected, "but I know the _what_ , _how_ , and _why_."

He looked at me with skepticism in his eyes before he took his pipe out of his mouth and used it to point at the blackboard behind me, "Explain," he mumbled interestedly.

"It's a vampire," I stated confidently and watched the room lift their eyebrows at me in unison, "But not just any vampire, a _pure-blooded_ vampire—a Vampire Lord."

"A vampire? That doesn't make sense," he pitted. "None of them had–"

"Bite marks or their blood drained! I know," I interrupted with a hand gesture—waving his comment away, "But let me explain and I promise it'll all make sense. _Everything_ will make sense."

"Go on then," he mumbled slowly and returned the butt of his pipe to his mouth.

"It's a vampire, I'm certain of it, most likely living right here in the city. But as I said, it's a _pure-blooded_ vampire, probably hundreds if not _thousands_ of years old. With that age, it's highly intelligent and fully capable of blending into society, and because it lives in the city it's beyond careful not to draw attention to itself, so careful, in fact, that I believe it only feeds _outside_ of the city—we have missing people cases all the time, travelers, sailors, and traders who never return. Wayrest is the perfect city for a vampire to lay low—it may have lived here for generations!"

" _If_ , and that's a strong if, a vampire lives in the city, why would it–"

"Because it screwed up!" I exclaimed with a hand gesture, pointing a finger in point. "Let me explain! It all started a month ago, with Rubarb," I said, turning my side toward the room and pointed my finger at the beginning of my timeline, "I believe… no, I'm certain of it, Rubarb was killed by the vampire because he happened upon it outside the city, witnessed it feeding on someone. Now, the vampire saw him and obviously had to kill him in order to keep its identity hidden. But here's the thing, Rubarb was wearing his uniform, and since the vampire lives in the city it recognized him for what he was: a District Lieutenant! It couldn't just kill him, not in any way that would draw attention to him, no, and it couldn't make him disappear either, as it probably does with it other victims—there'd be too large of an investigation if a district lieutenant disappeared. No, it needed Rubarb _dead_ , it needed him _found_ , and most importantly of all, it needed his death covered up as something _not vampire_!"

"Like an animal attack?" he mumbled slowly but skeptical, keeping along with hard eyebrows.

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, throwing an excited gesture, "And that wouldn't be a problem for it, as I said, it's a _pure-blooded_ vampire, capable of shape shifting into a clawed massive beast twice my size. It'd have no problem whatsoever making his death look like an animal attack—to make it look as if he had been mauled by a bear!"

"Hm," he let out with a puff of smoke, "We're with you this far, but that still doesn't–"

"I'm not done yet," I interrupted with a shake of my head, pointing back at the board, "In comes Mornd, who began investigating Rubarb's death. Now, the vampire may have succeeded in making Rubarb's death look like an animal attack, but as I said, it lives in the city and it is _highly_ cautious not to be discovered. So what did it do?" I turned for the room with my finger still on the board only to be met by big eyes and confused faces. "It kept an eye on Mornd!" I said obviously, taking my finger off the board, "It kept an eye on Mornd because it had to be sure the cover-up had worked; it needed to be _absolutely certain_ that its identity wasn't at risk."

"But it was," the Captain said skeptically, "Mornd never suspected anything other than a bear attack, so why would the vampire kill him then?"

"Because the vampire didn't know that," I pointed out, "or perhaps Mornd _did_ learn something but never got the chance to tell you, perhaps the vampire couldn't keep as close an eye on Mornd as it wanted to, or perhaps Mornd simply investigated Rubarb's death a _little bit_ longer than the vampire felt comfortable with? Either way, it doesn't matter, as I said earlier, the vampire is cautious and overly careful, possibly _too_ careful for its own good, and as old as it must be, I can't imagine this being the first time it's had to cover up its tracks. It knows by _experience_ not to take any risks. No matter how small and unlikely, it wouldn't take the risk. It dared not take the chance of being discovered: it needed Mornd dead—that's where the two weeks come to play."

"The two weeks?" he asked, chewing in thought on the butt of his pipe.

"Yes," I said, pointing at the timeline behind me. "All the murders took place almost exactly two weeks between one another. At first, I didn't believe that to be a coincidence, that's why I bought into the mage conspiracy theory—the timing was too precise and planned to be a mere coincidence. But now, I'm thinking it _is_."

"A coincidence? How?"

"Because of the full moon," I said with eyebrows going high, seemingly explaining nothing as they all sat silent. "Remember, the vampire needed Mornd dead, but as the Captain said," –I threw him a gesture— "Mornd didn't suspect much. So the vampire was in _no_ hurry, it had time to plan, and _plan_ it _did…_ for the full moon was coming." I looked around the room for a breather—this is where it gets good—but still, everyone sat with dumb confused looks and open mouths, didn't they see it? "There was a problem with Mornd: he never left the city. And, agan, the vampire _couldn't_ kill him in _any_ way that would draw attention to it. It couldn't just walk into his home and murder him, bite out his throat and drain him of blood or anything similar, no. But being a Vampire Lord, making it look like another animal attack was easy—it did it with Rubarb—and what kind of ¨animal attack¨ would at least make the slightest bit of sense _inside_ the city?"

"A werewolf attack," the Captain mumbled.

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, pointing eagerly at him. "Two weeks is nothing for a vampire of that age, It had no problem waiting whatsoever, and it _had_ to wait. Because, again… the full moon was coming. And. It. Had. _planned_ for it. _Relied_ on it. _Depended_ on it!" Again I pointed back at the timeline, on the date of Mornd's death. "And because it planned—kept an eye on Mornd for two weeks—it _knew_ Mornd and Amanette were alone in their house every evening—no staff present. And so, on the night of the full moon, all the vampire had to do was walk up to his home, knock on his door, and the second Amanette opened the door—as she admitted she had!" —I turned at Julian with a flick of my hand, pointing, who nodded slowly but confused in return— "she was under his spell! The Vampire Charm!"

"The Vampire Charm?" Julian asked, confused as I looked at him.

"A powerful compulsion magic, unique to vampires, that ma–"

"Makes people do whatever they want," the Captain finished for me, "I know what it is."

"Yes!" I said, turning my pointing finger at him—Good, saves me the trouble of explaining. "But more importantly, it makes them _forget_ about it afterwards! _No memories_! Amanette said she had been _knocked out_ that night, but that isn't what happened, she _slept through the night._ She only claimed she had been knocked out because that's the only thing that made sense to her—and she's too stubborn to admit anything else, you know how she is.

"I know how she is," he mumbled admitting as I pointed for confirmation.

"But it made sense to her, because she had _no memories_ of the night. So back to the vampire…" I paused to wipe my face and eyes—my skin felt oddly itchy with excitement, "She opened the door, and she was instantly under its charm. And now, all the vampire had to do was ask her where Mornd was, or have her show the way, and then, it simply sent her to bed to keep her out of the way—that's the first mistake the vampire did."

"Mistake?" the Captain asked.

"Yes, because it murdered Mornd! Made it look like a werewolf attack! It _should_ have killed Amanette as well… well…" I squirmed a bit uncomfortable at the statement, "I'm not saying it should have killed her, but it _**should**_ have killed her. Because if it had, Andane would _never_ have had reason to suspect anything other than an actual werewolf attack. But he later came to suspect something, because _werewolves_ don't _knock people out_."

"But Andane never suspected anything other than a werewolf attack either," the Captain said.

"Not at first, no!" I said, "Because the cover-up was too brilliantly made by the Vampire, the method of killing, the full moon! It all fit, it was flawless. But Andane _did_ come to suspect it later, the only reason _you_ didn't know that was because you didn't have him keep you up to date with his investigation, that you didn't read his reports—because you were too busy with the paperwork to make him second in command. That _you_ didn't know what he was up to is entirely on you, Captain."

"Hm," he let out grumpily with a huff of smoke, briefly looking away at the others before looking back at me.

"But as I said," I continued, "Andane _did_ come to suspect something other than a werewolf later, because he figured out the same thing we did." I pointed back at Julian.

"That… werewolves don't knock people out?" he repeated.

"And _that's_ why he questioned it! _That's_ why he returned to Amanette… last Turdas… _three_ days before he died… again, _two weeks_ after Mornd's death." Again, I pointed to the timeline.

"Go on," the Captain said.

"Yes," I let out, looking over at the Captain. "He returned to question Amanette, and as he questioned her he came to realize, again, the same thing I–" I briefly turned my attention to Julian, " _–we_ realized. That there was something _strange_ about how Amanette acted, as if she _could_ remember something about that night, but at the same time she _couldn't_. And so Andane had a thought: what if Amanette wasn't knocked out? What if she had her memories of the night removed? What if she had been _put to sleep_ by magic?"

"Your thoughts on a mage being behind it?" the Captain asked.

"Exactly," I said, "The Coroner told me Mornd's body could have been faked, that there are weapons that could mimic that of claws, and he surely told Andane the same. And Andane must now undoubtedly have bought into that, that a mage—an illusionist—had faked Mornd's death and wiped Amnette's memories. He was _wrong_ , of course, the _vampire_ killed Mornd, but he didn't know that yet. But 'a mage' is what Andane was now thinking, and he needed more information, so what did he do?" no one responded, "He went to the most influential man he knew: his _father_! The head of the bank. _He_ knows everyone with a bank account, anyone of importance! And his father, in turn, directed him to Talemnion—the top Master Illusionist in the city—who he went to visit the day after, last _Fredas_ afternoon."

"Last Fredas afternoon?" the Captain reacted, sinking into thought, "That… that explains it."

"Hm?" I looked over at him.

"When he came here and signed the papers, to make his promotion official, he was in a hurry. Didn't stay long, said he had an important appointment."

"Well that's the appointment then," I pointed. "To see Talemnion. And that he did, he went to see Talemnion to learn of illusion magic! And there, as I did, he learned the real truth—the existence of a Vampire Lord. Talemnion told me he checked his memories, I have no idea what memories he saw, but he figured out what Andane didn't, that a vampire charm made more sense than an illusionist, not only because of the magic used, but probably also because of the state of Mornd's dead body; the method of his death. And by his explanation, Andane was convinced. So convinced, in fact, that it had him scared." Again, I pointed back at the board, at the pictures I had drawn. "I've never taken Andane as a believer, but then, I've never really known him outside of work either. So even though I found it odd at the time I didn't pay much attention to it, but the _amulet of Stendarr_ I found on his body? The _silver knife_ Julian found at the scene? _Both_ of them were given by Talemnion. And _both_ of them are used to ward off vampires."

I looked over the room, saw the big expressions in all their eyes. They all looked to believe me and why wouldn't they, it all made sense. It all fits. And if anyone's still skeptical, they'll be sure as the Gates of Oblivion to believe me after what I have next. Fuck me.

"Andane _knew_ the truth now. He knew the truth and it had him scared, it had him scared because he _knew_ that _he_ was next in line to be murdered. And he _knew_ _ **what**_ was coming for him—a _Vampire Lord_. He probably wanted to run straight to the station and tell you–" I hinted at the Captain "–but checking memories takes time, hours, and it was probably late by the time they were done. Late enough that you had gone home, and you live further away from Talemnion than Andane does, so what did he do?" I looked over the room again. No one reacted—only tense silence. "He ran home! He ran home and locked himself in safety—the maid told us he had been locked inside his study all weekend, asked not to be disturbed—and there, he got to work. He wrote down every detail he knew, every single piece and clue. He put together _Rubarb_ , _Mornd_ , _Ammanette_ , the things Talenion had told him. And the more he worked, the more he put together, the more certain he became. And he was _terrified_ , rightfully so: a vampire. He didn't dare leave his home to tell you, he knew that all it took was a glance, to lock eyes and he'd be under the vampire's charm—he'd be dead. Just like that. He couldn't risk leaving his house. But here's the thing, the festival was coming. The streets would be crowded. He'd be a lot safer walking in public than on empty weekend streets. So all he had to do was keep locked up in his home until Mondas—and that's what he did. Attempted too at least."

"But if his files were at home, how do you explain his visit to the station?" the Captain interrupted skeptically.

"Because he didn't go for his _own_ files," I explained excitedly, "He went for _Mornd's_ files, the ones on _Rubarb's_ death. But I'll get to that. Because here's the most important thing: Just like the vampire had kept an eye on _Mornd_ , it also kept an eye on _Andane_ , and Andane didn't know that, or perhaps he did, it doesn't matter."

"But…. Sir–" Julian uttered shyly.

"I'm not done," I stopped him in my excitement, throwing a sharp gesture of my finger. "The vampire had kept an eye on him from the start. And, at first, it must have felt safe, because Andane came to the conclusion that Mornd's death was a werewolf attack—just as it had planned. He had no reason to question it at first: the full moon; the injuries on Mornd. All the clues pointed to a werewolf—unlikely as it was, it was still far more likely than an actual animal attack within city walls, and no one would _ever_ draw the conclusion of a vampire—least of all Andane. No, the vampire was safe. Its cover-up had worked! Until last _Turdas_ , that is." I drew their attention to the timeline again. "When Andane thought something strange—Amanette—and decided to revisit her, and, again, Andane began digging into a case that _should_ have been closed. The vampire got nervous, it _had_ to keep an even closer eye on him, needed to follow and know _everything_ he did. But then, Andane suspected a mage, _the illusionist_ , and the vampire could breathe safely again—cover not blown. But still it followed behind him, retraced his steps, and Andane made the mistake of meeting Talemnion… where he learned the truth. And once the vampire learned of that? It's in the _shit_ now."

Aah, the silence in the room. Anticipation so thick in the air that it gave me chills—I'm sure the Captain's pipe had gone out long ago.

"Yes, the vampire's in the shit now, and fuuck mee is he in the shit now," I repeated, nodding slowly in choking excitement at the syllables, "It was in the shit because Andane had learned the truth. And Andane was _no longer_ looking for a werewolf, and he was _no longer_ looking for a mage, no, he was _**actively**_ looking for a _**vampire**_. Its identity may be safe but it's cover was blown—it needed to act. And it needed to act _**now**_ , it _couldn't_ wait for the next full moon, it _couldn't_ wait for Andane to leave his house, it _couldn't wait at all_ —every single minute Andane was alive was a minute closer to the people learning of its existence in the city. It needed Andane dead. _Now_. Before Mondas, before Andane got the chance to go to work. So that's what it did, killed him without delay. And _that's_ where _I_ come in—the night of Andane's murder… it explains everything. It's perfect." I paused. I needed to breathe. I needed to breathe for the adrenaline shaking in my veins. I shouldn't be smiling, but, fuck me, I was.

"So explain then," the Captain mumbled through a single slow breath in the deafening silence of the room.

"It did… the _exact_ same thing it did on the night of Mornd," I started, "That evening, it simply walked up to his door and _knocked_. And when the _maid_ opened the door… she was _instantly_ under its 'charm'—remember, eye contact is all it takes—and now, all it had to do was ask her to lead the way, and, under his compulsion, lead… the way… she did. _**She**_ led him through the house, up the stairs, and to the library. Where _**she**_ unlocked the door… and _she_ let the vampire into the library… and there, it came face to face with Andane. **Baam**!" –I clapped my hands– "he **too** , instantly under its charm! Andane was at the vampire's mercy now, and fuck me, there was _nothing_ he could do but comply. But the vampire couldn't kill him, no-no, _not_ just yet. Because it needed to know just how deep a shit it was in—how much had Andane figured out? Was his identity safe? Did anyone else know? He needed to know _everything_ Andane knew. He probably interrogated him for hours, and _that's_ why Andane came to the station!"

"To get Mornd's files," the Captain pitted in.

"Yes!" I let out, "The vampire needed to know not only how much _Andane_ knew, but also in case there was anything in _Mornd's_ files that hinted at its existence! Or, as I said earlier, perhaps Mornd _did_ learn something—the real reason _he_ got killed as well. So, under its charm, it compelled Andane to head to the station to fetch them—to eliminate the evidence Mornd had gathered. And _**that's**_ why he hadn't flirted with the receptionist!"

"The receptionist?" the Captain reacted.

"The receptionist, she told us Andane _always_ stops to flirt with her, but this time he _didn't_. He **didn't** because he was under the _compulsion_ —get the files and _return_ to the vampire—that was the only thing on his mind, and that's why he acted out of the ordinary. And more importantly, it explains why the couch was dry."

"What?" the Captain shrugged confused, "What does the couch have to do with anything?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's why the table was flipped?!"

"You're losing me, Clyfar," he said, and by the looks of things I was losing everyone else in the room as well—all looking at me as if I was a madman. "Back up, explain."

Fuck me. Take a breath.

"Andane was wet…" I said with a nod at the word ¨wet¨, "When we found him? His clothes, they were damp."

"Yes?"

"He was _wet_ because it had been raining when he went to and back from the station—the storm. But it hadn't been raining earlier in the evening, not when the Vampire arrived at his house. That's why the couch was dry, because while Andane was running to the station the vampire stayed behind—it had no need to accompany him—Andane was under his compulsion and would return no matter what. So it sat down on his couch as it waited—I know it did so because it later flipped the table that was between them, but I'll get to that too—now, the station is close to an hour away, which gave the vampire two hours, maybe more because of the storm, to study up on Andane's investigation, to read through his files as it needed to know how much he had figured out. Just how deep in the shit it truly was. And _it_. _was_. _deep_. The things it must've learned… I have no idea as to the content of Andane's investigation, but it must have been far more than the Vampire expected. And the more it read on? The more it discovered? Not only had Andane learned of the existence of a vampire within the city, but a _Vampire Lord_ at that. It's usage of the Vampire Charm; the connection to Amanette—the vampire's most critical mistake, the one that now nearly had it undone—by the time Andane returned, the vampire must have been furious, enraged, and most of all, _humiliated_. To think its existence, its way of life, was now threatened by a mere mortal. Someone not even a _fraction_ of its own age, and not a _clever_ one at that! But a _young_ , _spoiled_ , and _womanizing_ boy who bought his rank solely out of the money and influence of his father. It must have been _**pissed**_ —I'd be."

"What makes you say that?" he asked. "That is was pissed?"

"Because of the coroner! Because of how it killed Andane—crushed his head!" I eagerly let out—no change on his face, "Imagine, the Vampire sat on the couch, reading his files, learning how close it had been to be discovered, and Andane returns with Mornd's files. It must have been oozing anger beyond belief! I must have wanted to kill Andane the second he got back, to tear open his throat and empty him of blood—as he deserved! But it didn't. Because it _couldn't_ —again, it could do _nothing_ that would draw attention to it! To a _vampire_! And so it remained… patiently on the couch as it bitterly watched Andane return. It did _nothing_ because it needed to make sure the evidence was gone. That's when it told him to burn the files—his own, as well as Mornd's—and it sat. Waiting. Because it needed to watch the files burn, it needed to see the evidence go up in flames before it could act. It needed to see the horror, and threat on its existence burn. But once it did—once it saw the files go up in flames… it finally unleashed its anger."

The sound of a match lightening interrupted me—the Captain rekindling his pipe—but I didn't care, nothing could falter me now. I stood, smiling like a fool, gesturing like a mad-man! But I didn't care, they can think what they want—I have it all!

"And, oh, the fury, the _rage_ it must have felt as it sat there—watching this pathetic excuse of a lieutenant burn the papers in the fireplace as he had been commanded. And once the papers were burned? Ooh, did he decide to act. And act he did, rising from his seat as he could finally go through with his plans—Now! he could kill him." The excitement, it felt like sharing a horror story to children around a campfire in the woods—everyone's eyes so locked on me I could feel their stares and anticipation—that feeling when everyone is holding their breaths, "Yes, he rose, grabbing the table as he did so, flipping it aside in pure anger as he stepped over the carpet, transformed, shape shifted, and turned into the beast Andane so had been fearing—clothes ripping as it grew in size, falling to the floor as it turned—and it was _mad_. Enraged! Andane turns, faces the beast in his study and—perhaps the charm wore off, perhaps it no longer applied for his new form, either way—Andane drew his dagger of silver, wielded it in defense as the wrathful beast approached." –I swung my arm sideways in a slash– "It slashed it out of his hand, ripping open Andane's stomach as it did so—how _**dare**_ a mere mortal threaten it!—and Andane falls to the floor, bleeding, mortally wounded—dying. But the Vampire wouldn't have it, no, it wasn't done yet! For it was _mad_. Imagine the insult it must have felt, the humiliation! That a spoiled 'child' of a man, a womanizing, carefree, young brat had nearly undone it?! It was beyond mad, and it wasn't about to let him bleed to death on the floor, no, Andane deserved something far worse! He deserved to _know his place_ in the presence of a _Vampire Lord_! So he grabs him by his head," –I mimicked the gesture with my hands– "and lifted him up in the air—feet leaving the floor as it brought him to his eye-level—and it roared—the neighbor thought she had heard a roar—so it roared! It made sure that the last thing Andane ever saw was a roaring face of rage from the horrid creature he had nearly undone! He _**roared**_ in rage as he clamped his hands around his head, digging his nails, his claws, into the skin of his skull! And then!" –I smacked my hands shut– "It _**crushed**_ his head in pure wrath! It was a _pure_ crime of passion!" –I let go of my imaginary nothing and watched it drop to the floor– "And watched his lifeless body drop to the floor. Vengeance served!"

"Well…" the Captain interrupted uncomfortably, "That's certainly a theory."

"A _theory_?!" I let out, snapping my head at him, "Fuck me, it's a theory! It explains everything! It _**fits**_ with everything! It explains the memory losses; the two weeks; the way of the murders; the motive! It's a vampire! A pure-blooded vampire—I'm sure of it—a vampire desperately attempting to cover up its tracks! It even explains the maid! How she found him—she offered us tea!"

"Tea?" he let out with a confused nod.

"Tea!" I repeated. "When we spoke to her? She was shaken, traumatized, could barely speak. Yet, by instinct, she offered us tea!"

"Yeees . . . ?" he let out, even more confused.

"She offered us tea, because work-habit is strong in this one—she's probably been a maid even as a child!"

"What are you getting at?" he mumbled.

"Just back up and think about it…" I said and nodded eagerly, "the _clues_ we found at the scene? The Vampire? The maid running for help in the middle of the night? The fabric? Don't you see?"

"No," he said plainly in a single breath, furrowed brows.

How couldn't he see?! "When the vampire had killed Andane, it had transformed."

"And?"

Fuck me, "The fabric I found in the fireplace! It never was Andane's coat—as I first thought—it was the clothes of the _vampire_. Once it had killed Andane, and transformed back, it was just standing there, naked in his study. So what did it do? Easy, it threw the remains of its own torn clothes into the fire to eliminate any evidence, and then headed back out into the hall where the maid was waiting—still under his charm. Walking the streets naked would obviously draw to much attention, so he asked her for clothing, and she provided him with Andane's coat—the long one, she specifically said ¨the long one,¨ because that would cover up even his naked legs! Andane didn't burn his coat, the vampire took it! And more so—fuck me this only gets better—once clothed, the vampire asked her to let him out the backdoor, and obviously she did. _That's_ why she came running in the night! Because, once the vampire left, the charm probably wore off. And there the maid was, locking the backdoor as she does every evening—she told us she had been locking the backdoor, ¨as she does every evening,¨—and, again, work-habit is strong with this one."

"And this has what to do with tea?" he asked.

"Because she does it _**every evening**_!" I almost shouted in excited repeat. "Think of it, she had just snapped out of his charm, memories **gone**. She was probably disorganized, confused, befuddled—as if she had just woken up from a bad dream. All she knew was that she was locking the backdoor, ¨as she does every evening.¨ And so her work-brain kicked in—it was evening—and she continued work. She locked the door and prepared for bed, she lived there, and headed for her chamber, when she noticed Andane's coat was gone—the coat _she_ had given to the vampire, but, again, she had no recollection of that. She assumed Andane was still out, and so her work-brain, her unconscious—the part that _knew_ he had had company—told her to clean up the study while he was gone, something she could _only_ do while he was gone, because Andane had told her not to disturb him in his work. And _that's_ why she entered the library! And _that's_ when she found him! _That's_ why Andane's coat was missing! And _that's_ why she came running in the _middle of the night_ because _**she**_ believed it to be evening! Because she locked the fucking backdoor and offered us tea!"

"Do you have any actual proof of this?" the Captain said.

" _None_ whatsoever!" I snapped at him with a ridiculous smile. "But that only confirms it! Doesn't it?! As I said, it's a _Vampire Lord_ , an ancient, _highly_ intelligent, being. Not the first time it's been threatened! I would _**never**_ do anything that left a trail behind! The fact that there is _**no**_ single piece of proof whatsoever is more proof than anything! It's too perfect!"

I twisted around on my heels, admiring the blackboard in front of me—fuck me—the more I looked at it, the more sense it made! I've cracked open the entire case! I've never been this excited in my whole life!

Here it is, the ¨ _Parlor scene_ ,¨ that moment when the detective brilliantly reveals all! Connects the clues and uncovers the truth. Everything fitted, everything made sense, _Everything_! I can't be wrong! And **I** figured it out, _**Me!**_ —a simple commoner!—I felt like one of those _super_ detectives from one of the childhood stories my mother used to read! Am I still breathing?

"But sir?" I heard Julian ask behind me, the same nervous tone he had held earlier.

"Yes!" I snapped around, turning around to face him.

"Does… doesn't that mean there's a Vampire Lord out there, and he's coming for you next?"

And like that, the excitement dispersed. The ridiculous smile on my face turned flat and hollow. My skin went cold up my neck.

Fuck me, I thought—no longer in enthusiasm—he's right. How had that fact evaded me? Had I been too caught up in victory to realize it only revealed my defeat? I knew from the beginning this case had put me in danger, but now? A Vampire Lord? Fuck me.

"That's it!" the Captain let out, pointing his pipe at me from the corner of my eye as they had set to look to the floor, "I want two, no, _three_ guard around you at all times, Clyfar. You're not going anywhere unguarded! You three…" I saw him point.

His voice faded off in my head—the commands he gave others were left unheard to me. My mouth felt dry. He's right . . . Julian is right. I'm dead. What chance do I stand against a Vampire Lord? The other lieutenants are all dead… and now, I've learned the very thing that got Andane killed. Two days? Andane died two days after learning. Do I even have that? And… everyone else in this room knows as well… are we all dead?

No, not yet. Get it together, Clyfar! So far this is only a theory, fuck me, a strong theory at that, no, it all makes sense, I'm sure of it—It's a vampire. But the Captain is right—I have no proof? What fucking proof did Andane have? What was _he_ going for?

"We… we need to find the body," I let out from my thoughts.

I looked up from the floor, everyone were looking at me in silence.

"The body," I repeated, "We need to find the first victim."

"Rubarb?" The Captain said, "We have him–"

"No," I interrupted. "the _first_ victim. If I'm right, and Rubarb witnessed a vampire feeding, there should be another body. If we find that one, it must have bite marks on it, be drained of blood. That's the proof we need." Yes… I need proof. "Get me a map."

I stood frozen in my mind as people began to move, the Captain pointing and ordering others. It didn't take long before someone returned with a map in hand and placed it on the table in the room, flattening it out as I walked over. Everyone gathered tightly around us to see.

"I never investigated the case, where was Rubarb found?" I asked.

"Around here," the Captain said and pressed his finger down on the map just outside of the city-walls.

"There," I said reassured, pressing my own finger down almost next to his, "That's a pond, the perfect place to hide a body. If it's a vampire, feeding outside of the city, that's where it'd hide its victims. We need to search that pond." I looked up at the Captain who met my eyes—fuck me, he looked as pale as I felt. "We need to search that pond," I repeated. "We might even find more bodies than one."

He sighed and drew his hand over his bald-spot as he looked over the room, looked into the eyes of everyone present. And, again, he sighed, "gather everyone who's on leave," he said, "I don't care if we search that pond all night, I want anyone capable there. As for rumors, we're searching for a missing child."

Rumors? Fuck me, that's his worry?… Fucking politics.


End file.
